


Her Favorite Color

by Nyessa



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood Magic, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:19:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 30,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3371024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyessa/pseuds/Nyessa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imogen Hawke has a quick solution for everything, usually in the form of a dagger or a promise. But after the night Fenris walks away, she finds she must come to terms with the fact that she can't fix everything by herself--especially not other people. </p><p>Takes place primarily after "A Bitter Pill" and extends into Act Three. Some tags may not apply until later chapters; others may be added as they become relevant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as an exploration of how Fenris might have acquired the tokens representing his romance with Hawke, and then it kept growing into something more.

_"Fenris, before you go."_

_He closed a sheet of paper, filled with his painstaking yet still shaky handwriting, into the book they had been practicing with that night. His hand still on the cover, he stopped clearing up the materials from their third lesson to look at her expectantly._

“ _I had an idea,” Hawke said, surprised at the hesitancy of her own words, “and you're perfectly free to reject it. But I thought it might be easier for us to have these lessons if you didn't feel the need to appear on my balcony in the dead of night.”_

_One side of his mouth pulled back in a smirk. “Is it not necessary?” Then his expression sobered. “I would be too conspicuous if I were to simply stroll through Hightown Square in the middle of the afternoon. I do not wish my presence here to be questioned so that the limits of Aveline's protection must be tested. Nor do I wish to cause you trouble with your neighbors.”_

_She nodded her acknowledgment, but the last admission surprised her. He couldn't be concerned about her reputation, of all things. Perhaps he worried that her neighbors might do something more than gossip at parties._

“ _If you consent to my plan, that shouldn't be a problem anymore. Or, at least, not much of one.” She leaned her hip on the edge of the writing desk and tilted her head as she regarded him. “You're a bit of a unique case among my friends. Varric, Aveline, and Sebastian are seen to have legitimate reasons for visiting me, so they come and go as they please. Anders and Merrill are not, but they never come here unaccompanied. “_

_Fenris raised an eyebrow. “And Isabela? I have seen the signs of her visits.” He had, the week before, discovered a word that the pirate had carved into a stair railing. Thinking it good practice, he had taken great pains to sound it out, much to Hawke's amusement and her mother's chagrin._

“ _Isabela is a walking scandal, and she likes it that way.” Hawke looked down at her hand resting on the desk, and from her hand to his. “Public consensus is that she's my lover and thus has a...semi-legitimate reason to visit.”_

_He removed his hand from the cover of the book and crossed his arms. “And you say nothing to correct this?”_

“ _Denying it would only cement the idea in their minds.” She met his eyes again and grinned. “Besides, there are too many competing rumors for me to keep up with them all. Like the one in which Sebastian comes to offer me something more than spiritual guidance.” Whether it was a crown he offered or a single night of passion depended on who was telling the story. “Or there's the one in which I seduce the Viscount's son in order to steal secrets for the Qunari—or seduce the Arishok to spy for the Viscount. There was even a tale floating about Varric and me for a week or two.”_

“ _Isn't Varric himself the most likely source for these stories?”_

“ _Probably some of them, except for the last. He made sure to nip that one in the bud as soon as he got wind of it.” She waved her other hand vaguely. “To spare Bianca's feelings, you understand.”_

“ _Of course.” Fenris chuckled and seemed to relax a bit. “But you had some point to make?”_

“ _Yes...you're very careful to go unnoticed when you visit me here, yet you seem perfectly comfortable being seen with me in public. Why?”_

_He considered before answering. “Alone, I am an elf where elves do not belong, an intruder or at best an annoyance. But when I walk beside you, I am simply another member of Serah Hawke's entourage.”_

“ _Exactly. No one questions your presence because you're there for a reason they can understand and accept. You're seen as a...bodyguard.”_

_Hawke watched his face for his reaction to that description. His primary duty as a slave had been as a bodyguard, and she did not wish to draw any comparison between herself and his former master. But Fenris simply watched her and waited for her to reach her point._

_After a moment, she straightened and walked over to one of the bookcases, where she retrieved a package wrapped in red cloth. It was nearly flat and a little larger than her spread hand. She turned back towards Fenris and held it out to him._

“ _What I suggest is that we make your employment official.” She pushed the cloth open to reveal a badge bearing the Hawke family crest. “Or at least make it look official. If you wear this, it will be understood that you're acting on my behalf, under my authority. You can move freely through Hightown without anyone blinking an eye—or at least without any overt harassment.”_

“ _But I would not actually be in your employ.” He stepped closer but did not take the crest from her hands._

“ _No.” She quirked an eyebrow. “I think we've grown past that stage in our relationship. But I don't want you to think that I'm trying to...claim ownership. This is simply an offer of protection. It's not much protection, I admit, but it should at least get you safely to my front door without my neighbors calling for the city guard.”_

“ _Appropriate, then, that it takes the shape of a shield.”_

_The next time she saw him, he was wearing the crest on his belt. And when it came time for their fourth lesson, he arrived in daylight at her front door._

* * *

 

“You're not going in there alone.” Aveline set her mug of ale carefully on the table in the middle of Varric's suite at the Hanged Man and regarded Hawke with a stern not-quite-glare.

The Guard-Captain's tone brooked no argument, but Hawke didn't intend to give her one anyway. She nodded.

“This concerns the safety of Kirkwall, and you should hear the Arishok's reaction firsthand,” she agreed, and then turned to the dwarf at the head of the table. “Varric? You understand the atmosphere in the city better than anyone.”

“I'll be there,” he promised without enthusiasm. “Anyone else, or will we be a merry band of three against every Qunari in the compound?”

If Hawke understood the Arishok—and she didn't, but perhaps her understanding was clearer than most—there wouldn't be any _against._ Not yet, anyway. But she couldn't make that promise to the people who would be going with her to give him the bad news.

“Leave me out of it.” Isabela tilted back in her chair. “You couldn't get me to go within a hundred yards of that blighted place even if I were dead drunk.”

Aveline raised an eyebrow. “Isn't that what you are most of the time?”

“Better than being dead boring.”

“I don't want to bring Qunari attention to our mages.” Hawke continued as if that little exchange hadn't occurred. Better to cut them off before they really went at each other's throats. “Besides, Anders can't keep his mouth shut, and Merrill...”

Varric chuckled. “Daisy's not really suited to tense, diplomatic situations.”

“I can just imagine her walking up to the Arishok and asking him if he likes butterflies.” Hawke smiled briefly, but it faded as shook her head. “Or casually mentioning blood magic.”

“The girl's sweet,” Isabela said, “but she's smarter than you give her credit. You should trust her.”

Over the past several years, the Dalish girl had not given up her scheme to fix the eluvian, nor had she budged an inch on the topic of using blood magic and dealing with a demon to do so. “She's given me less reason to trust her than you have, and you're a bloody pirate.”

“You're too harsh with her.”

“Someone has to be.”

“I thought Fenris and Anders already had that covered.”

“So,” Varric interrupted smoothly. “Blondie, Daisy, and Rivaini are out for this little excursion. What about Choir Boy?”

Hawke ignored Isabela's glares to consider the suggestion. “Sebastian is too convinced of Grand Cleric Elthina's innocence in the matter.” She shook her head. “I don't disagree on that point, but he refuses to believe that _anyone_ in the Chantry might be involved with the delegate's disappearance. He won't go along with making our investigation public, not with Elthina's honor in question.”

“Just the three of us, then.”

Varric conspicuously failed to suggest the final member of their usual group, the one person Hawke had not invited along on a job for the past several weeks nor been seen with at all in the same span of time. She had shut down any questions about the matter the first time he failed to show up for their now-routine patrol of the coastal trails. If he had told anyone the reason for his absence, then they were doing a better than usual job of keeping their mouths shut about it.

“No.” She sighed and tried not to look too grim. “I think I want Fenris.” As much as she hated to admit it, his time on Seheron and familiarity with Qunari customs could be invaluable in defusing the situation.

“Sweetheart, everyone knows you want Fenris.” Isabela folded her arms behind her head. “You're not exactly famous for your subtlety.”

Hawke laid both hands flat on the table, very slowly, and looked the woman in the eye.

“Isabela,” Aveline said in a low tone. “Didn't you say you weren't interested in this job?”

“I didn't, actually. I just said I wasn't going near the Qunari.” The pirate dropped her chair back down to all four feet and shrugged as she stood. “But I guess I'll go find my entertainment elsewhere.”


	2. Chapter 2

_She stood facing away from him and pulled the pins from her hair, one by one, until it uncoiled and fell in a long rope down her back. Then she picked and tugged at the ribbon that tied the tail in place until it loosened and her hair was freed to spread across her shoulders._

_Fenris cleared his throat. “It...is longer than I expected.”_

_She turned around and grinned. “If Isabela were here, she would tell me that I'm the one who's supposed to say that.”_

“ _Isabela isn't here,” he growled._

_Hawke looked him up and down, pleased at the flush spread across his skin. “Thank the Maker for that.”_

_She let the ribbon drop from her hand, and it fluttered to the floor, a splash of arterial red between them._

* * *

 

“I need you to swing by Fenris's mansion and ask him to join us today.”

Aveline crossed her arms and regarded Hawke. “He's closer to you than he is to me.”

Hawke forced herself not to wince at the choice of phrasing. “Yes, but I...have an errand to run before we meet up, and it's rather urgent.”

“Hawke.”

“Please, Aveline.”

“All right, fine.” Aveline sounded unconvinced, but Hawke was grateful that she acquiesced. “But you're going to have to resolve whatever this is before it goes too much further.”

“I know. If there's anything left at this point to be resolved.” It was the closest she had come to admitting that something had happened at all. “Thank you for this.”

Hawke and Varric arrived in front of the Qunari compound at almost the same time. When the others appeared, she spotted Aveline's red hair and imposing figure first. Fenris trailed behind her, slouching as always, and looking for all the world as if he were trying to hide behind the human woman. He nodded to Hawke when he stopped in front of her, but he did not quite meet her eyes.

It was the first time she had seen him since he had walked out that night. He was wearing her crest on his belt. Well, good for him, still using her name for his own protection. She wanted to rip the badge off and stomp it into the ground in front of him, scream that he had no right, _no right—_

Then she saw his wrist and the ribbon, red as fresh-spilled blood, tied around it.

Unconsciously, she lifted her hand to touch the back of her head where her hair was tied up, as always. Today it was a black ribbon. She had not been able to find her favorite red in weeks. The last time she had worn it...

She looked at his face, and this time, he looked back. Almost, she took him in her arms, right then and there. Almost, she kissed him. But the hint of fear in his eyes, nearly buried in defiance and longing, shocked her back.

That was the moment when her heart broke. After weeks of barely holding it together with a fragile thread of anger and blame, her heart broke not for the loss of him but for the understanding that she had made him afraid of her. Something in her touch had been wrong, and she didn't even know what it was so that she could fix it.

She forced a smile and didn't mind that it was probably a grim one. Let them think it was for what they were about to step into.

“Glad to have you all with me. Let's go deliver the bad news.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Orana didn't seem to understand, yet, that she was a free woman. Hawke had explained that she would be paid weekly for a specific and limited set of duties, that she could spend her money as she wished, that she could leave the family's employment whenever she decided it was time to move on. But the newly-freed slave seemed not to quite believe it._

_Hawke was grateful to let her mother take charge of directing the girl's work; she had, at first, been reluctant to assign Orana any duties, but Leandra had insisted that freedom included the right to earn her wages and not be kept like a pet. Leandra had the experience of her youth to tell her how a proper noble household should be managed—even if they weren't proper nobles—and Hawke wondered what other lessons she had missed by growing up on the run. But Orana took to her work quickly under Leandra's watchful eye and with Bodahn's gentle guidance, and Hawke tried not to worry._

_It didn't work._

_Orana cringed whenever Hawke came too close, spoke her name, or gestured with her hands. She asked permission to do anything, apologized for everything, and always,_ always, _asked if there was more work for her even when she was clearly exhausted. Hawke took comfort in the fact that at least the young elf was not afraid of Pretty. In fact, after a fraught first encounter, Orana seemed more confident when the mabari was present._

“ _I noticed you brought a lute with you among your belongings,” Hawke said one evening after dinner, an idea growing in her head. “But I've never heard you play it. You can, if you'd like.”_

_And so Orana brought her lute downstairs and played. She seemed to know only sad songs, but she could sing in three languages that Hawke could identify: Tevene, Elvish, and the King's Tongue. She didn't seem to speak any Elvish beyond the lyrics of the songs, however, or know what they meant beyond a general summary._

_The next night, she brought the lute downstairs and played again. And the next night. And the next. Like clockwork. Every evening after dinner, she played for half an hour in the main room, standing before the fireplace as if it were a stage. It wasn't until two weeks had passed that Hawke came to the conclusion that Orana had made another duty out of her music._

“ _You know,” Hawke tried again when Orana appeared with her lute, “you don't have to play if you don't want to.”_

_Orana—damn it—cringed._

“ _Do you dislike it, Mistress?”_

“ _Please don't call me that.” Hawke had tried a dozen times already to get the girl to drop the servile title. “If you must call me something other than my name, 'Messere' will do. But no, I enjoy your music very much.”_

“ _Messere, I don't understand.” Orana stood with the lute awkwardly in her hands. “Have I annoyed you?”_

“ _No!” Hawke immediately regretted raising her voice, even a little, when she saw Orana wince. “I just mean that it's your choice. Play if you want to; don't if you'd rather not. It's not one of your duties. Unless you want it to be, in which case we can discuss giving you a raise to compensate. It's up to you.”_

_Orana played that night, and Hawke didn't know whether or not to count that as a victory._

* * *

 

“So you're back.”

“So it appears.”

“How disappointing.”

Hawke sighed and tried to pretend that she couldn't hear Anders and Fenris bickering as she lead them along the winding trail into the hills that overlooked the coast. It was almost a shame that they made such a good team in a fight because they couldn't get along with each other for five full minutes outside of one. Anders was usually the instigator and tended to be the crueler with his barbs. Hawke knew it to be a sort of preemptive self-defense, saying something nasty before Fenris got the chance to, but at times she was hard-pressed not to turn around and slug the mage. At least she had Varric along to play peacemaker, though she felt a tiny bit guilty for roping him into the job of nanny time and again.

“We thought you might've skipped town this time, elf.” Varric spoke up right on cue, and Hawke thanked the Maker although she could have wished for a change in subject.

“Not yet,” Fenris answered after a pause.

Not yet. He had considered it; Hawke could tell that much from the space between the words. And he might still go. He was not decided. Not yet.

She glanced back and met his eyes. He didn't look away. He was still wearing her crest on his belt, her ribbon threaded around his wrist, her colors on him. She wanted that to mean something; she thought it did, but she couldn't be sure that it meant what she wanted. Perhaps she was reading too much into it.

Perhaps she should stop thinking about it and focus on what they were supposed to be doing.

Unfortunately, the coast did not offer her much distraction that day. It was a strangely peaceful day on the Wounded Coast, and that did not suit her at all. No Tal-Vashoth, no gangs of raiders. She had hoped they would stumble across a den of slavers that she might offer them to Fenris as a gift, a bloody peace offering. She should have asked Aveline if any of her men had spotted signs they could track.

None of the others seemed disappointed by the lack of action. Even Anders didn't complain about being dragged away from his clinic for nothing, too wrapped up in some story Varric was telling. Hawke had not been paying attention, and it took her a few minutes to realize that the story was about her.

Ostensibly.

It was one of those tales that was about twenty percent truth, thirty percent embellishment, and fifty percent total bullshit, and Anders was drinking in every word as if it were pure lyrium. Varric had gotten past the part where Hawke kicked in the door—slightly more realistic this time than tearing it off its hinges—and was reciting Hawke's challenge to the mercenary captain when she finally realized what and who he was talking about.

“Varric, that's not what happened at all.” She glared at the innocent look that spread across the dwarf's face. “First of all, this took place outside, so there were no doors to kick down.”

Varric cheerfully ignored her. “Hawke drew her twin daggers, Carver and Bethany, but instead of hurling them into the first mercenary she saw, she dropped them both into the dirt at her feet.”

“More importantly, Saemus is not technically a prince, and he was wearing a great deal more clothing than that.” She stopped walking and set her hands on her hips. “Anders, you know this is nonsense—unlike Varric, you were actually there!”

“And then Hawke challenged the ruthless mercenary captain to a mud-wrestling contest for possession of the poor, kidnapped prince.”

Now she knew Varric was trying to get a reaction out of her, and it was working. She cast a despairing, “please help me” look at Fenris, but he only shook his head with the barest hint of a smile on his lips. It was the first she had seen from him in a while.

“Andraste's ass,” Hawke muttered. “You're all impossible.”

When the sun was high, they stopped at an overlook to enjoy the simple lunch that Bodahn and Orana had packed for them. Once it was all parceled out, they took the places that seemed most comfortable to them; Anders leaned his back against the weathered trunk of a tree, Varric perched on a flat rock, and Hawke sprawled out on the sparse grass with her mabari hound, Pretty, as a pillow. Fenris took his meal away from the others, sitting on a fallen log, his face to the water.

“All we need is a checkered blanket, and it would be just like having a picnic,” Anders commented between bites. “And look, we don't even have to endure Fenris's cheerful company.”

Hawke gathered up what remained of her portion in a napkin and pushed herself to her feet. She regarded Anders for a long moment before she spoke.

“Nor mine, it seems.”

Pretty lifted his head and whined but did not stand up from where he lay.

“Hawke, I didn't mean—”

“Let it go, Blondie,” Varric murmured as Hawke turned her back on Anders and walked over to where Fenris sat alone.

She wasn't sure he would welcome her company, or anyone's, but she stepped over the end of the log and sat down, leaving a respectful distance between them. She would have preferred to sit closer, feel the warmth of his shoulder against hers, but she didn't think she could stand it if he pulled away. Easier not to get too close in the first place.

Fenris said nothing, didn't even look at her, but he set his food down in his lap and waited.

“I was wondering if you might do me a favor.”

He cocked his head at this. Hawke was not known for asking favors, only for saying what she wanted and expecting it to be done.

“It's about Orana. You remember her?” She didn't wait for acknowledgment. “That girl we found with...Hadriana. The one I gave a job to?”

“I remember. There is a problem?”

“Not exactly.” She hesitated, unsure if he would take her request at face value or read some ulterior motive into it. She wasn't entirely certain that her motives _were_ pure. “Would you come to the house sometime to pay her a visit?”

He frowned. “Why are you asking this of me?”

“It's just...I feel so useless. I'm trying to help her, but I think I'm mucking everything up and making it all worse.” She spread her hands, palm up, on her knees. “There are things I don't understand, don't know how to _begin_ to understand, about what she's been through. And I think she needs somebody who's...been there.”

She looked at him and tried to let him see the utter desperation she was feeling, the helplessness that she had not allowed herself to show him the night he walked away. She had tried to be strong for him, before, and she could only hope that he would not disdain her weakness now.

Fenris looked back and sighed. “You hate not knowing how to fix something, don't you, Hawke?” He returned his gaze to the water. “Not everything is so easily solved as you would like. What would you have me say to the girl?”

“The truth. Tell her you're checking in, that you want to make sure I'm treating her right. And if I'm _not_ treating her right...” She hunched her shoulders. “I know I'm not the gentlest of people. If I'm hurting her in some way I don't realize, you will tell me, won't you?”

“I promise,” he said slowly, “that I will not let you harm her.”

That was not exactly what Hawke had asked, but she decided it was better.

“I'll hold you to that.” She stood and turned away from him to rejoin the others. “And Fenris?”

“Hawke.”

She took a deep breath. “I'm sorry I hurt you.”

She was several steps away before she heard his soft reply:

“It was never you.”


	4. Chapter 4

_Hawke's heart thudded faster as Fenris held the bottle to his lips and tilted it up to take a long drink. Had he meant what he said? Had he meant it the way she thought he did?_

_Coming from any other man, she would have thought he was just trying to let her down gently, put her off until she lost interest and found some other flirtation to pursue. From him, after that look he had given her, it came across as self-awareness. Or indecision._

_Fenris passed the bottle to her._

_She echoed his toast, “To the fallen,” and drank. There was little enough left in the bottle that she could have drained it then, but she took just a sip and swirled the remaining mouthful in the bottom. She was no connoisseur, but even she could tell it was good, and she already knew that Aggregio Pavali was expensive. Danarius would never have wasted a single glass of it on a mere upstart Kirkwall Hightowner like her, much less on a man he considered a slave. She savored the lingering taste of both wine and defiance._

“ _Not much left.” She held out the bottle to Fenris. “You should have the honors.”_

_He accepted without comment and polished it off, holding the bottle upside down to catch the final drop of stolen wine on his tongue. Hawke watched him and hoped that his former master was feeling the loss right then._

_She waited to see if Fenris would throw the bottle, smash it against the wall as he had the first on the night they met. But he let his arm fall to his side as if he had no strength left, and the bottle slipped from his grasp to roll on the floor. It came to a halt against the foot of her chair._

“ _I think that's enough conversation for you, tonight,” she decided. Looking at him, she wondered if he had limited himself to the one bottle or if there had been two—or more—left when he began his evening. He was not much of a drinker in her experience, and the ale at the Hanged Man tended to make him more reticent and withdrawn, not talkative._

_She stood and offered her arm. After a moment's hesitation, he took it and pulled himself onto unsteady feet. He swayed a little until she got one shoulder under his arm. For once, he didn't flinch away from the touch, and she turned to steer him towards the corner of the room._

“ _Let's get you to bed now.”_

“ _Hawke,” he muttered as she eased him down onto the edge of his bed, “are you trying to seduce me?”_

_The words caused heat to bloom below her ribcage, but she pushed it back. “As you said, tonight's not the night. Do you want me to help you with your armor?”_

_Fenris held out his gauntleted arm for her like a child, and she knelt in front of him to work at the buckles and straps. It bothered her that he wore his armor so constantly, even when he was alone in his own house. She wouldn't have been surprised if he slept in it sometimes, but she would make sure that he slept more comfortably that night. She pulled away and set aside first one gauntlet, then the other, and then the more awkward pauldrons and chestplate. At his belt, she hesitated, but she didn't think he would bother to take it off himself if she left it._

“ _You could get away with it, you know. If you wanted to.”_

_Hawke stopped and looked up at him. The expression on his face was not that of a man hoping for seduction, and it would have killed any lingering temptation in her even if he weren't already drunk and thus off-limits._

“ _I don't want this to be something I 'get away with,' Fenris.” She rested her hands at either side of him. “Not tonight, not ever. Now, will you let me take care of this belt? Then it's time for you to sleep and me to go home.”_

_Once she had set the belt with the rest of his armor, he flopped onto his side and stretched out on the bed, but he kept his eyes open. Hawke considered staying and sitting with him until he fell asleep, but she suspected her presence would just keep him awake longer. So she got up, pinched out the candles, and left to let him rest._

* * *

 

“That,” Isabela said as she slid into the seat recently vacated by Donnic Hendyr, “was truly painful to watch. What were you thinking?”

Hawke shook her head and sighed through her teeth. “I was expecting a certain someone to intervene by now. Obviously, I set my expectations too high.”

“Were you trying to make Fenris jealous?” The pirate leaned forward and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper—one that clearly carried to the next three tables. “Because his glowering is about to burn a hole through the opposite wall. Hmm, that could be an...interesting talent.”

“Fenris was in on the plan, actually.” Hawke glanced over to where the elf leaned against the wall, arms crossed. She drained the last dregs from her mug. “I told him there was no reason to stick around for this part, but he insisted on being here.”

“Ooh, so he's ready and waiting to defend your virtue.” Isabela smirked. “This is all part of a job, then? I hate to say it, sweet thing, but seduction is not one of your many talents. If you want something from the man, you're going to have to use your fists. Or just give him a good tongue-lashing.”

“Don't think I haven't considered it,” Hawke muttered and flushed when she realized what she'd said and to whom. And who had they been talking about, exactly? “That is, this whole job has been very...frustrating so far.”

“I'll bet. Sure you don't want me to _handle_ things for you?”

“Maybe you'd better not.” Maybe Aveline would kill her if she tried. “But I'll let Varric tell you all about it when it's done.”

Aveline did not approach until after Isabela had gone. Once plans were made for the next—and hopefully more successful—stage of the Guard-Captain's surreptitious courtship, Hawke decided to stick around with Varric and help Aveline drown her sorrows while the others drifted off.

“You know, Fenris is right,” Hawke said when she was about half-way to drunk. “About you and being afraid. What did he call it?”

“'A fear reserved for dragons,'” Varric quoted.

“I've seen you look a dragon in the face, and that was nothing compared to how you look when you're working yourself up over Donnic.”

“I know.” Aveline stared miserably into her mug. “It's not so easy for me to be as straightforward as you are when there's something you want.”

Hawke laughed. “Avie, I practically took lessons from you in how to be direct.”

“But you don't hesitate to tell someone that they've caught your interest.”

“If you ask me,” Varric said in a too-innocent voice, “everything the elf said was really about Hawke anyway.”

“Didn't we just establish that I'm not the one who's afraid?” Hawke gave him a hard look.

“Right— _he_ is.”

“Hmm, and what he said about me squandering something I don't understand.” Aveline looked suddenly thoughtful. “That sounded like it was coming from personal experience.”

Hawke sunk lower into her chair and focused her attention on her drink.

“Look, Hawke, you've made it no secret how you feel about the elf.” Varric spread his hands in front of him. “And it's pretty obvious he returns the sentiment.”

“We all know something happened,” Aveline added. “We just don't know what it was.”

It was beginning to sound like an interrogation, and Hawke suspected that was exactly how they intended it. She said nothing.

Varric continued. “One day you're eyeing each other like you've got a room waiting for you at the Rose, and the next you're acting like you can't be far enough apart. I've been reduced to making up my own explanations for what happened.”

“As if you wouldn't be making things up even if you knew all the facts.” Hawke snorted. Then she looked away. “If you really want to know, what happened is that he didn't want me.”

“Bullshit.” Varric's eyes narrowed. “Is that what he told you? Because I didn't think the elf was enough of a fool to try and pull off a lie like that.”

“Fine, he never said it.” She put both hands on the table and leaned forward. “You want all the sordid details so you can put them in one of your stories? Here you go: I fucked him, and then he walked away. Because he didn't want me _enough_ to stay.”

Aveline opened her mouth as if she were about to say something but changed her mind. She watched Hawke with furrowed brows.

“Hawke...” Varric pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “That doesn't make any damned sense. He would've left Kirkwall and been long gone ages ago if it wasn't for you.”

“It was my fault.” She wished simultaneously to be sober and much, much more drunk. “I just wanted to show him how much I...but I ended up hurting him instead, so he ran. Because I'm not safe. Because I'm not enough to make up for that kind of pain.”

_Because I'm a self-indulgent ass who cares more about what this does to my ego than about why he's hurting._

Hawke shook her head and tried to laugh. She wasn't certain she should be saying all this, not when it was Fenris's business as much as it was hers. “Anyway, weren't we supposed to be talking about Aveline's failings in love, not mine?”

“Yes, I seem to remember that was the original plan.” Aveline took a rueful drink. “And even I, with all my shortcomings, can tell that Fenris cares for you a great deal.”

A few days later, on the Wounded Coast, when Hawke got fed up with Aveline's waffling and forced her to say something, _anything_ to Donnic, Fenris described the Guard-Captain's fumbling attempts to express her feelings as both pathetic and admirable. Hawke caught Aveline's eye for just a moment, and then she risked a glance at the elf. He was not looking at her, but running his left thumb back and forth along the ribbon tied around his opposite wrist.


	5. Chapter 5

“ _How shall we begin?”_

_Fenris sat at the writing desk in Hawke's library, back straight, shoulders stiff, glaring at the book in front of him as if sizing up an enemy on the battlefield. Hawke had pulled up another chair next to him. She reached forward and pushed the book to the back of the desk with her fingertips._

“ _We'll start with your name.” She drew a sheet of smooth paper from a stack on the corner of the desk and placed it in front of Fenris. “And then I'll show you some simple words so you can see how the letters work together to make sounds. After that, we'll go over each letter individually.”_

_She uncorked a small bottle of ink and dipped her pen. In large, bold letters, she wrote “F-E-N-R-I-S,” sounding it out._

_He stared at the letters for at least a minute, with an expression as if she had just told him that a certain cloud looked like a bunny rabbit and he couldn't quite see the resemblance._

_Finally, he said, “Fenris.” He glanced at her. “And what does your name look like?”_

_Below his, she wrote out: I-M-O-G-E-N._

“ _That says 'Hawke?'”_

“ _Oh, no.” Her face grew warm, as if she had just revealed a secret she was not supposed to tell. “That's 'Imogen.' Hawke is a bad example to start with because it isn't spelled exactly how it sounds. But my first name shares some letters with yours.”_

“ _Imogen,” he said. She wished he would say it again a hundred times, in a hundred ways. “This one is the same.” He pointed to the I, first in his name and then in hers. “And...these two?” He pointed to EN._

“ _That's right.” She smiled, and he smiled back. “Now you try. Hold the pen like so_ — _” She held up her hand to show him the grip. “_ — _and copy out your name next to where I wrote it.”_

_After several minutes of struggle, he managed to position the pen the way he wanted it between his fingers. He was rewarded with an ink blot as soon as he pressed the tip to the surface of the paper, and he growled in frustration._

“ _Everybody does that the first time,” Hawke murmured in what she hoped was a soothing tone. “Don't put so much pressure on it. And don't keep the tip on the same spot for too long. Keep the pen moving once you touch the page. Oh, and don't grip too tightly.”_

_Fenris scowled. “How am I supposed to keep the pen moving and not grip it too tightly and still hold onto it all at the same time?”_

“ _Well...” She tried to remember when she had been learning to write, what her father had said to her. “The pen is made from a bird's feather, right? So pretend that you're holding a living bird. You want to keep it from flying away without crushing it.”_

_He stared first at her and then at the pen and sighed. “I am...holding a bird in my hand,” he said skeptically and tried again. The line was shaky and blotted at both ends as well as twice in the middle, but at least it was a line instead of a puddle. “It looks as if this bird is defecating all over the paper.”_

_Hawke tried and failed not to giggle at the mental image. “I'm sorry, Fenris,” she said in answer to his snarl. “It's a good start, truly. Maybe...would you like me to guide your hand? That way you could feel the speed and pressure you should use for the strokes.”_

“ _I...” For a long moment, he looked at her, and then he shifted his gaze to the pen in his hand. “We could try that.”_

_She nodded and turned sideways in her chair, placing her left hand on his shoulder. Although he watched her every move, he still flinched when she touched the back of his right hand with hers. His hand was larger, so it was a little awkward to curl her fingers over his and encompass his grip on the pen._

_It was a temptation to move more slowly than she needed, to savor the warmth of his skin, the feel of his hand within hers. But she forced herself to move their hands together at a sure pace, placing down each steady line in smooth strokes._

“ _F-E-N-R-I-S,” he sounded out as she wrote the word with his hand. “And yours?”_

“ _I-M-O-G-E-N.”_

 _Later, she read to him from_ The Book of Shartan, _skimming her finger beneath each word as he followed with his eyes. They huddled close over the pages of the book, their shoulders pressed together._

* * *

 

“A visitor, Messere Hawke.”

Hawke glanced down from the balcony that overlooked the main room of her home. Fenris stood in the doorway from the foyer, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. Without thinking, Hawke smoothed down her skirt with her hands.

“Hello, Fenris,” she said as she descended the stairs and crossed the room to him. “Thank you for coming.”

“I said that I would.”

“Yes, and I know you're a man of your word.” Most of the time, anyway; his promise to spare the magister Hadriana's life in exchange for information about his sister had been the rare exception, and one that Hawke could not begrudge him. “I appreciate it, all the same.”

She was accustomed to greeting guests with a handshake, a practice that tended to bemuse the highborn and warm the lowborn. But with Fenris she had always held back, and not just due to the sharpness of the clawed gauntlets he usually wore. Now, more than ever, she wanted to approach him the same way she approached all her friends, yet now, more than ever, she knew better than to do so.

He wore the gauntlets that day, and the chestplate, and the pauldrons that reminded her of feathers. His sword, however, was not strapped to its usual place on his back. That did not mean he was unarmed, but it might make him appear less intimidating to those who were unaware of his other skills.

“Well, I believe Orana is in the library. Shall we?” Hawke led him through the door on the adjacent wall and stopped just inside.

The young elven girl stood on her toes in front of the fireplace, stretching up with a cloth in one hand to dust the high mantlepiece. Hawke cleared her throat, and Orana whirled around.

“Mistress! I—I mean, Messere. Is there something you need?” Her eyes widened as they drifted past Hawke to land on Fenris.

“You remember my friend Fenris, don't you?” Hawke tried to gentle her voice.

“Oh!” Orana lowered her eyes and dropped into a curtsy. “Of course, Master Fenris. I hope you are well?”

Fenris stiffened a little. “That is the question I have come to ask you, Orana.”

“I...am very well, Master Fenris.” Her eyes remained downcast except for one brief flicker towards Hawke. “The mistress treats me very kindly. But I have duties I must attend to.”

If anything, Fenris grew even more tense.

“Orana, this is a perfect time for you to take a break.” Hawke smiled at the girl. “There's nothing urgent that needs your attention this afternoon—certainly not the dust on the mantlepiece. Why don't you and Fenris take some time to get acquainted? I'll just be upstairs if you need anything.”

She hurried out of the room to give them both the space and privacy to speak more openly.

Her mother met her in the stairwell.

“Darling, are you sure this is a good idea?” Leandra asked, creases forming between her eyes. Hawke had told her about the plan for Fenris's visit. “Orana is such a gentle girl, and that friend of yours is a man of violence.”

“And I'm a woman of violence, Mother.” She folded her arms. “Fenris would never hurt her. He would more likely die defending her, if it came to that.”

“Maker,” Leandra breathed, rolling her eyes skyward, “let's pray it never does.”

Hawke could agree wholeheartedly with that.

After a little time had passed with no explosions, she devised an excuse to pop her head into the library and see how the two were getting along. She grabbed the first book she saw with the intent of returning it to its shelf. Surreptitiously, she marked her page so she could resume the story later; she was only a third of the way through, and Varric would never forgive her if she didn't finish the whole thing. He expected her full and thorough report every time he published something new.

The two elves were sitting across from each other on the floor in front of the fireplace when Hawke breezed through the door to the library. Orana had her knees drawn up to her chest as if to make herself as small as possible. Fenris, gauntlets discarded but ribbon re-tied around his wrist, was sprawled out, leaning over to trace a word in soot with his finger on the tile between them.

Orana saw Hawke, gasped, and smeared out the word with the palm of her hand.

“What was that?” In her curiosity, Hawke forgot all about pretending she had come in for any other reason but to see them.

“Her name,” Fenris said.

“Please forgive me, Mistress!” Orana scrambled to her feet and bowed her head, hands so tightly clasped in front of her that her knuckles turned white. “I'll clean it up right away.”

It took Hawke a few moments of confusion before she grasped what she was seeing, before she understood Orana's reaction for what it was—not guilt for making a mess, but something more. She recalled the night she had brought _The Book of Shartan_ to Fenris and the shame, almost fear, she had heard in his voice when he admitted he couldn't read, that as a slave, he had not been permitted.

Fenris remained where he was sitting, but watched Hawke, waiting for her reply.

“That can wait, Orana,” Hawke said, and immediately felt she had failed a test when the girl began to tremble. She suspected that trying to comfort her would just make things worse, so she turned and went to the desk where she and Fenris had once held most of their reading lessons. She set down Varric's book and spoke without turning her head to look at Orana. “If you'd like, you can practice on paper. That way you can look back on what you've written for later study. Or I have a couple of slates and some chalk lying around somewhere...upstairs, I think.”

The words came out too quickly, and she bit back the next thing she had been about to say. One step at a time. She drew out a sheet of paper and wrote O-R-A-N-A across the top. Then she turned and gestured for Orana to come look.

The girl took a few halting steps forward and stopped, halfway between Fenris and Hawke.

“I can teach you. That is, if you want to learn.” Hawke hesitated, not wanting to make this another duty for Orana to perform. “You don't have to.”

“You mean I could...” She stopped and half-turned to look at Fenris.

Now he pushed himself to his feet. “I spoke the truth, Orana.” He said it in a tone that sounded, to Hawke, like _“I told you so.”_

Orana returned her attention to Hawke and gave a curtsy. “Thank you, Messere. I would like very much to learn.”

Hawke's smile swelled broader than she usually allowed herself. “I'm glad to hear it.” She cast the smile to include Fenris as well as she picked up Varric's book from the desk. “Fenris, will you continue what you were showing her while I put this away? It will be good practice for you, too.”

“It would be my pleasure.” A hint of a half-smile graced his lips and faded as quickly. “But...we will need your assistance to go beyond the basics.”

“You'll have it,” she promised. “What do you say to the usual time?”

He nodded his assent, and with that small motion, the lessons were resumed. Soon he and Orana were huddled over the paper while Hawke carried the book up to the library's second floor. She heard Fenris begin to explain.

“This is your name,” he said, “and this is mine. And here, Hawke's first name, Imogen. Do you see how we share some of the same symbols?”

When Hawke returned to the desk, she stood back a little ways to watch and listen, letting Fenris be the teacher. There would be time enough for her join later, when she was needed. For now, he was doing just as well on his own.

Later, after Orana had complained of her brain aching and duties left undone, Hawke asked Fenris to join her in the garden. Usually, the little courtyard in back of the house was her mother's private refuge, but Hawke had chosen it as the only place other than her bedroom where they could speak without being overheard.

They sat on opposite ends of a stone bench, purple clematis climbing the wall at their backs.

“What do you think?” Hawke asked, suddenly nervous. “The lesson seemed to go well, and thank you for that; I'm kicking myself for not thinking to offer sooner. But how is she, otherwise?”

“As well as can be expected, but...” His tone shifted to something darker, his look accusing. “Perhaps you might have mentioned to her beforehand that I would be visiting. I...she...”

He cut himself off as she had only heard him do when overwhelmed.

“What is it, Fenris?”

“She assumed at first that I had come for...that you intended...” He shook his head fiercely, so his hair fell over his face. “To make a gift.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow. “A gift?”

His eyes slid away from her face. “Of her. To me. To have whatever use...”

“Andraste's blighted ass,” she hissed, grimacing. “What have I done to make her think so poorly of me? I take it you set her straight.”

“I would not allow her to go on believing such a thing a moment longer than necessary.” Fenris's voice dropped dangerously low, and he balled both hands into fists. “But I doubt it was you who caused her to think it. You underestimate the hold her upbringing has on her.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Is that sort of thing...common, in the Imperium?”

“Routine.” The venom in those two syllables could have dropped a high dragon. “And not just in Tevinter. Anywhere there are slaves.”

“Has Orana—” Hawke halted, not certain she wanted an answer to her unfinished question, or to the other question that she did not dare begin.

“I haven't asked.” He sounded suddenly distant. “If I had...you must not ask me to reveal what she tells me in confidence.”

“No, you're right.” She scrubbed her face with her hands. “Absolutely.”

After a few moments of silence, he spoke again. “Even if she has been one of the relatively fortunate, she will have known others who were not so lucky. And she will have had the threat of violence hanging over her head every day of her life. She will have _seen_ things.”

“Shit, Fenris.” Hawke looked at the side of his face. “No wonder she flinches every time I so much as glance in her general direction. How do I make her understand that I don't want to hurt her?”

More silence. It was the wrong question. She tried again.

“How do I help her feel safe?”

“Perhaps in the same way that you teach us to read: demonstration and repetition.” He met her eyes again. “And space to make mistakes along the way.”

“And a lot more time than a few short weeks, I suppose.” She smiled a little. “If only there were a quick and easy list of what to do and what not to do.”

“Hawke, if I knew what was required to feel safe after a lifetime of slavery...”

She wanted to take his hand in hers, brush her fingertips across the red ribbon at his wrist. She didn't. “As you've said, some things are not so easily solved.”


	6. Chapter 6

_Malcolm Hawke twirled his wife in the firelight. His deep, rumbling laugh mingled with Leandra's brighter one as they revolved around one another like double suns._

_Their twin children launched into the next verse of the song, shouting the lyrics with voices more enthusiastic than lovely. Carver stomped out the rhythm with his new boots that he was so proud of while Bethany beat two wooden spoons against the back of a chair. And their parents danced, and danced, and danced, as if nothing in the world could drag them away from each other._

_Imogen watched from the corner, head tilted to rest against the wall, while a sweet haze of sleepiness filled her mind. She had always looked at her parents as an example of the perfect love story, the sort of romance that every teller of tales tried to capture in words. They had given up so much for each other, risked so much, and had finally found everything—or almost everything—they dreamed of. And now they were happy, living every day with smiles that lit up at the sight of each other, finding any little excuse to touch as often as they could throughout the day._

_After all the hardship they had endured, their eldest daughter knew without a doubt that Malcolm and Leandra Hawke had a love that would last forever. And when she drifted into sleep, she dreamed of someday finding a love like theirs._

* * *

 

Hawke sat very still on the edge of her bed, hands folded perfectly on her lap, and watched the fire die.

She knew she should eat or sleep or something, but the stillness was the only thing that kept her from falling apart. Pretty lay at her feet with just enough of his weight resting on them to anchor he without being uncomfortable. She used him as an excuse to stay where she was, to not disturb him, but she had no inclination to move anyway.

Leandra had _worked_ through her grief when her husband died, pouring everything into her children, making sure they were fed and clothed and that everything went on as normally as possible. And she had slept through her grief for Carver; on the ship to Kirkwall, she had spent more hours in the Fade than she had awake and weeping.

And when Bethany was taken to the Circle, Leandra had thrown herself into writing. It was letters, mostly—to her daughter, of course; to survivors of Lothering, just now surfacing in the wake of the Blight; and especially to the old friends of her youth. She rejoined the social universe of Hightown, Kirkwall and became the bright scion of the Amell family that her parents had always wanted her to be before she took it into her head to run off with a charming apostate. She had even begun again the slow dance of courtship, so slow that she would not yet speak of her new suitor's name.

Hawke had been the one to kill him, though Fenris had almost beaten her to the death blow. She wondered how many more people she would have to kill in order to alleviate her own grief.

Anders finally pulled her away from her mother's body, or rather the amalgamation of women that had included Leandra and housed the last few moments of her consciousness. She had flinched away from the mage's touch on her shoulder, snarled like a rabid mabari, but he persisted. She gave in when Pretty nudged his head under her elbow and whined. Anders stood her on her feet and supported most of her weight as he led her away, arm under her shoulders, to a place where she could sit and rest and not see. He whispered gentle, soothing things in her ear, meaningless things.

She allowed this, but at that moment she would have preferred Justice. She did not quite let herself wonder why the spirit had failed to manifest at a time when he was so obviously needed.

Varric disappeared, and that almost broke her before Anders explained that he had gone for help. He returned soon, saying nothing but that he had sent runners for Aveline and Sebastian. Everyone else, including the templars, could find out in the morning what had happened. Then he sat with her, silent for once, holding her hands between his larger ones to stop them from trembling.

She did not remember what Aveline or Sebastian said to her when they arrived, the Guard-Captain getting there first with a contingent of her men. Someone reminded Hawke later of Sebastian's promise to see to all the funeral arrangements, to make sure she didn't have to worry about a thing. She would wonder without feeling if it was to be a joint funeral for all the women, or if they would separate and sort out the parts to give each her own pyre.

Fenris had been the one to pick up the body, careful to cradle Leandra's head against his shoulder like a sleeping child. He carried her—it—out of the foundry, following Sebastian, to wherever the dead were taken. Anders had slipped away at some point before the arrival of the guardsmen, and Aveline would be staying for some time to do whatever it was that guardsmen did when someone else took down a murderer they had failed to stop.

So it was Varric who escorted Hawke back to the Hightown estate in the early hours of the morning, before the sun had broached the horizon. They walked slowly, Varric supporting her on one side and Pretty on the other all the way. At the door, he spoke a few quiet words to Bodahn, and then a few quieter words to her before leaving her in the empty house that was supposed to have been a home for her family.

After she informed her uncle of what had happened, and he made clear where he thought the blame lay, she sat, and she thought, and she thought nothing useful. She sat through the morning and into the afternoon, heedless of the passing time, heedless of the changing light or growing hunger, heedless of the worried glances of Bodahn or Orana periodically checking on her. When a familiar weight settled on the edge of the bed next to her, she almost didn't notice him at all.

Fenris offered a few artless platitudes before falling silent. He was bad at it, and she was almost grateful for that. When he gingerly wrapped his arm around her and pulled her in to rest against him, she was almost grateful for that too. But she felt no spark of desire, none of the satisfaction she would have expected at having him so close. She didn't even take the opportunity to brush her hand against the ribbon on his wrist.

“It's my fault,” she whispered into his shoulder. “All of it. I was supposed to protect my family, like my father asked me to, but I failed, and I failed, and I failed.”

He did not contradict her, nor did he offer forgiveness. He just held her and rubbed small circles into the muscles of her back until she began, a little, to relax. Hawke listened to his breathing and matched it with hers, slow and steady, anchoring her awareness of the world to his existence beside her.

But then he shifted her off his shoulder, slid his arm away, and stood. She wasn't ready to let go, but she couldn't bring herself to stop him either. Fenris touched her chin with his fingertips for just a moment, looked into her eyes, and was gone.

Pretty lifted his head and watched the elf go. He whined, got up from his mistress's feet, and followed.

Hawke did not have the strength to call him back to her.

It wasn't until she heard the first note that she realized Fenris had taken Orana's lute out of the room with him. The delicate sounds lifted up to her, faint at first, through the open door. Then she heard Orana's wordless voice, light, sweet, and a little breathy.

Soon the meaningless sounds formed into words. They sounded Elvish, and strangely familiar. Hawke thought she must have heard them before, but her memory supplied Merrill, not Orana, as the speaker.

_hahren na melana sahlin_  
 _emma ir abelas_  
 _souver'inan isala hamin_  
 _vhenan him dor'felas_  
 _in uthenera na revas_

Another voice joined Orana's in the song, this one deep and rough. Hawke startled when she recognized it at Fenris's voice. She had never heard him sing before, never considered whether or not he even could.

 _vir sulahn'nehn_  
 _vir dirthera_  
 _vir samahl la numin_  
 _vir 'lath sa'vunin_ '

She came to her feet, not sure why she was standing, or how. Her legs were numb, but she took one tentative step, tested her footing before she put her weight down and took another step. Slowly, the song drew her out of her bedroom to the top of the balcony, where Pretty waited for her. She stopped beside him at the railing, and he snuffled at her hand.

Orana and Fenris sat below in adjacent chairs near the fireplace. The servant girl fingered her lute and continued to sing with her eyes closed, face to the fire, while the warrior harmonized. His voice was stronger and could have easily overpowered hers, but he held back to let her lead.

The Feddics stood nearby, listening. Bodahn had his arm around Sandal's shoulders and was openly weeping, tears streaming down his face, while his son looked up at him.

The music, or Bodahn's tears, or the sight of Fenris and what remained of her household gathered together—whatever it was, it broke something apart inside Hawke. She found that her own face was wet, and that her chest was heaving, and that her breath came ragged.

Fenris must have heard her, for he looked up at that moment and caught her eye. His voice faltered and he half-stood, gripping the arms of his chair. But he seemed to understand what she needed because he lowered himself back down and rejoined the song.

His eyes never left her while she wept.


	7. Chapter 7

_There were too many._

_Aveline shouted in her most authoritative voice, commanded the mob to back down or face Kirkwall justice, but her position as Guard-Captain held no meaning in this dark place, to these people who had been whipped into a frenzy by Ser Varnell's mixture of charisma and bigotry. All she could do was protect Anders, hold the fanatics off of him while he worked spells from the corner they had been backed into._

_Hawke could not afford to worry about them now. She had her own problems to deal with. More and more of the mob descended on her, seemingly from all directions. Individually, they were nothing—no armor to speak of; shoddy, improvised weapons—but their sheer numbers were close to overwhelming her._

_At first she had thought to knock them out, stun them, incapacitate as many as she could without actually killing. But when she took one down, three more came up behind her. Civilians or not, she had no choice but to draw blood._

_If she could._

_A heavy weight landed on her back, and she stumbled. An arm pressed against her throat, pulled back, cut off her air. Panic set in. She struck backwards with her daggers—missed—struck again._

_And then the weight was gone. Hawke whirled to see Fenris lift the man up, one hand inside his chest, and toss him aside._

“ _Varnell,” he snarled. “Go.”_

_She did not have to be told twice._

_Fenris had cleared a path for her and attracted the attention of the mob so that they now converged on him, leaving her free to seek her target. She took the opportunity, covering her movements with a smoke grenade to get closer to the instigator of the mob._

_Varnell had his attention on the elf, ordering more of his fanatics to swarm. He didn't even know it when Hawke pressed her blade to his throat and pulled._

_It was a shame, she thought as he fell forward. Better if he had seen his death coming, like the Qunari delegation he had tortured and murdered, but justice did not require poetry._

“ _Ser Varnell is dead.”_

_She met the eyes of the first man who turned towards her and lifted up her dagger, still dripping Varnell's blood. The man ran, and most of his compatriots soon followed, disappearing into the tunnels they had poured out from._

“ _Is everyone in one piece?” Anders asked, stepping tentatively out from his corner._

_Aveline rolled the shoulder of her shield arm. “Just a bit battered, that's all.”_

“ _Fenris?”_

_There was no answer._

_Hawke swept her gaze over the room, but where she expected to see Fenris wiping the blood from his sword, all she saw were the prone forms of dead or unconscious fanatics, and among them a thin brown body with a shock of white hair—_

“ _Fenris!”_

_She vaulted over the body of Ser Varnell and ran to where Fenris lay, dropping to her knees before she had skidded to a complete halt. He was face down, his armor covered in blood, and it was easy—too easy—to turn him over onto his back. Hawke pressed two fingers under his jaw, between the lines of lyrium that snaked up his neck, and forced her own body still in order to feel for life._

_One beat._

_Two beats._

_Three._

“ _Oh, thank the Maker.” Relief flooded her with such intensity that she slumped sideways to the ground. “Anders, get over here!”_

_Anders appeared and knelt over here first. “Hawke! Are you hurt? Is he—“_

“ _Alive.” She waved him away. “I'm fine. Help Fenris.”_

_The healer turned his attention to Fenris, and soon he was helping the elf sit up. “Just a concussion. You'll be good as new in no time.”_

_Fenris grimaced and spat. Then his attention drew on Hawke, half-sprawled on the ground beside him, and concern tinged his eyes. Just like him to worry about her when he was the one with a head injury._

“ _Welcome back.” She flashed him a weary smile. “Let's not do that again.”_

* * *

 

Either Fenris had a great deal of faith in Hawke's abilities, or he wished her dead.

Looking up at the massive form of the Arishok, she wasn't sure which was more likely. It seemed an elaborate way to have her killed, but Fenris had enough flare for the dramatic that she couldn't put it entirely past him. And she was going to die here; of that she had little doubt.

Hawke had led the Qunari leader a merry chase so far, dodging and sprinting all over the dead Viscount's throne room. She was tempted to grin and wave when she passed the steps where her friends stood watching, every one of them with tight jaws and clenched fists. It was the only way she could handle the thought of her impending death, acknowledging the ridiculousness of the situation. Varric would make a good story of it, at least, but her sense of humor was beginning to thin.

She caught her breath, steadied herself, waited with both eyes on her enemy. When he charged, she darted out of his way at the last second and began the chase again.

Or that was what was supposed to happen.

Everything became disjointed, one moment unconnected from the next. She was suddenly looking _down_ at the Arishok, and there was a strange pressure tight against her abdomen. Then the pain came, and with it realization—the Arishok had run his sword straight through her. She was held above his head, levered up by his sword. Her grip on her daggers slackened as the pain rolled out, and she could barely keep her hold on them. She had no breath to scream.

Was this what Carver had felt when the ogre had him in its grasp?

Hawke kicked her feet reflexively in spite of a dim awareness that it would make the damage worse. The Arishok stared up at her with cold satisfaction before dropping the tip of his sword. Her daggers raked his chest on the way down, drawing thin parallel lines of red.

She slid from his blade to land heavily on the cold stone floor.

Someone shouted in the far distance, but the noise seemed to come from several directions at once. Pretty gave a single bark that pierced her clouded perception. She struggled against the weight of her own body. Get up, get up, _get up._

She lifted her head in time to see her dog launch himself at the Arishok's legs. Pretty latched onto the Qunari's right calf with his powerful jaws. The Arishok kicked back, couldn't shake him, and took two steps away, dragging the hound behind. With a powerful sweep of his leg, he slammed Pretty against a pillar.

The mabari lost his hold on the Arishok's leg and collapsed, limp, at the base of the column. Hawke stared at the still, huddled heap of her dog. He didn't move, didn't even whine as the mountain of a kossith loomed over him.

She pushed herself to her knees, one arm pressed tight to the wound in her gut. Her leather armor was damp all down her stomach, her back, her legs.

The Arishok raised his sword, back still to her.

She slipped in something slick, found her feet beneath her, crouched low. For all she knew, Pretty's interference meant that the duel was forfeit.

The Arishok swung downwards at her _Maker-cursed dog_.

With all her remaining strength, she propelled herself up and forwards, uncoiling like a spring towards the Arishok. Something in her screamed, but no sound came. Her daggers sank into his back and she _twisted,_ pulling his swing off-course.

The Arishok's sword shrieked against the stone.

She fell with him, anchored to his back. The jolt when his knees hit the ground almost knocked her loose, but her hands curled so tightly around the hilts of her daggers that she could not have released them if she tried.

The Arishok swayed, tilted forward, fell.

Everything around her was red. Her favorite color. It bloomed like roses, thousands of petals plucked just for her, scattered all about from a lover's hand.

The Arishok did not move.

Someone was pulling her fingers free, turning her over onto her back. Green eyes stared into hers. She reached for his cheek, missed, got blood in his white hair and on the point of his ear.

“Anders,” she said.

Her head tipped back of its own accord, too heavy for her neck to hold up. There was Bethany, upside down. Her mouth was open wide, teeth showing. Sebastian had both arms around her waist, holding her from behind, and his mouth was open too. What a sweet picture they made together.

“Anders.” Was it she who said it this time?

Hawke was floating above the ground as if the air were cold water, drifting past face after face on the current. She could hear her own heart and nothing else rushing in her ears, so she began to count.

One beat.

Two beats.

Three.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be slowing down as I hammer out the details of the uncharted territory between Acts 2 and 3. However, I've outlined enough that I'm now fairly confident about how many chapters this work will ultimately contain.

_Hawke cursed at her skirt as she came down the stairs._

_It wasn't that she didn't like dresses. Dresses were pretty, and she liked pretty things well enough when she had the time to appreciate them. It's just that the skirt was too narrow and kept twisting around her knees, and she was sure she was going to trip on the hem any minute now. And, anyway, there were prettier things in the world that were far less troublesome to deal with. Like sunrises. All you had to do was get up early for those. You didn't have to wear a sunrise._

_What she really didn't like were the parties that the dresses went along with. And even those wouldn't have been so bad without Mother hovering around, trying to play matchmaker. Hawke was not interested in pairing herself off with a respectable husband, even if she had enough money to afford a little respectability now. She was more interested in a pair of green eyes and a deep, growling voice that had her ready to throw all her respectability out the window. Along with her dress or whatever else she happened to be wearing._

_Hm, that was a thought. One that tripped her up nearly as badly as her skirt when she reached the bottom of the stairs, looked up, and saw him standing in the doorway._

_Fenris was looking at her. No, examining her, and taking his sweet time in doing so. The little half-smile came and went so quickly that she couldn't be sure she hadn't imagined it. He shifted his feet. She shifted hers._

“ _Apologies.” Whatever for? “I have heard rumors of slavers operating out of Darktown and hoped you might accompany me to investigate. But you seem to have other plans.”_

“ _I'm not exactly dressed for Darktown, am I?” Hawke glanced down at herself and was suddenly grateful to her mother for making her wear the dress, even if she didn't plan to wear it much longer. She met his eyes again and grinned. “Just give me a minute to make my excuses to my mother. And...to change into my armor.”_

* * *

 

The Champion's Ball was the first event that she was able to attend on her own two feet.

There had been the funerals, before, too many of them. Marlowe Dumar's, of course—everyone attended that one. The square outside the chantry had been flooded with people, even those who had disliked the Viscount in life.

Hawke had attended his murdered son's funeral as well, just before everything went to shit, remembering as the pyre burned what Saemus had once said about the Qunari attitude towards the remains of the dead. They were, he had told her, empty vessels worthy of no particular reverence. She had wondered if it mattered that the Viscount secured a Chantry funeral for a convert to the Qun. She had thought, at the time, how strange it was to have two funerals so close together, Saemus so soon after Leandra.

But now there were also the smaller funerals, the ones for people who were not so well known: several of Aveline's guardsmen; one of Uncle Gamlen's friends, a dockworker; the next door neighbor's gardener; a patron at the Hanged Man who sometimes played cards at Varric's table.

She attended every one in a wheeled chair pushed along by Orana, who had been playing nursemaid since the day Hawke almost bled to death on the floor of the Viscount's throne room. At the end of each funeral Hawke gave up a few minutes to accept greetings from acquaintances and strangers, her face numb from maintaining the sad yet pleasant smile she had memorized from her mother's face at her father's funeral. Then she would beg off, citing her need for rest to recover from her injuries.

The excuse was true enough. Anders only allowed her a little bit of walking each day, within the safety of her own bedroom, and only with Orana, Bodahn, or himself by her side. Otherwise, she was to spend half an hour on her balcony or in the garden, and the rest of the day in bed. _Maybe_ she could spend an hour or so in a chair by the fireplace, but not for too long at a time. All the while, Pretty sat at her side or lay at her feet, spurring her recovery by making progress with his own.

Hawke was, for once, content to follow Anders' prescription, her usual restlessness tempered by lingering pain and a weariness she had never felt before. Anders stayed close at hand to make certain she didn't rebel, but the only thing that chafed was his attempt to restrict how often and for how long her other friends could visit her. They had stood vigil in turns during her initial unconsciousness until she began to wake and Anders banished them all. Then Bethany broke three days of solitude with her one and only visit, which Meredith allowed as a courtesy under the supervision of Knight-Captain Cullen.

“Bethy,” Hawke said when Bodahn ushered her sister and the templar into her room. Her hands fluttered for a moment over the covers, but she didn't have the strength yet to lift them in a proper greeting.

Bethany stood just inside the doorway, looking at her. Then she said, “Imogen, you utter _ass,”_ and burst into tears. “How _could_ you?”

“Shh, shh, Bethy.” Bethany came to kneel at her bedside, and Hawke stroked her sister's hair with a wry smile. “Next time, as long as you're safe, I'll just let Kirkwall burn. I promise.”

Bethany stayed for two hours, and they both steered the conversation as much as possible to pleasant things. Eventually, Ser Cullen said that it was time for the mage to go, and she did not come back.

After that, the others trickled in. They came one by one at first, and then in a variety of combinations. Aveline and Donnic would sit together, so intertwined—his arm around her shoulders, her arm around his waist, ankles hooked around each other—that there was no telling where one stopped and the other began. Varric would lounge back in his chair, arms making expansive gestures as he relayed all the latest rumors. Sebastian would stand at her door or sit beside her bed with his head bowed and his voice quiet. Merrill would dangle on the edges of furniture never designed to be sat upon, her expression always half-angry or half-sad. Even Uncle Gamlen would poke his head in for a few minutes every couple of days.

Isabela never came. She had not been seen in the city since the day before the attack, when she had taken the Tome of Koslun and left a note in its place.

Fenris, also, never came.

When too many days passed with no sign of him among her visitors, Hawke asked Varric, biting her lip to hold back the fear that had begun to nag at her.

“Word is the elf's been taking solitary mercenary work all up and down the Wounded Coast. Anything and as much as he can get his hands on.” Varric shook his head. “Seems he's been camping out there, only coming into the city to get paid and pick up more jobs. He won't take anyone along with him, or even show his face long enough for us to offer.”

It was a relief, and it wasn't.

Soon came the invitation to a ceremony and a ball in her honor to officially name her Champion of Kirkwall, and with it word that Knight-Commander Meredith had taken over administration of the city until a new Viscount could be invested. A flurry of requests followed from men—and a few women—to accompany Hawke to the festivities.

Anders, in one of his wilder moments, proposed that they go together to let Meredith know exactly where Hawke stood on the issue of mages and the Circle. Sebastian offered as well, suggesting that she might prefer the company of someone who had no motive other than brotherly friendship.

Hawke asked Varric to escort her.

He didn't have to ask why. But others did, and when pressed, she offered this explanation: he was her oldest friend in the city and the one to whom Kirkwall was home, more than it was to any of the others. What she didn't say was that Varric was the only one who never expected more from her than what she had already offered.

On the evening of the ball, he arrived at her door in a formal black duster over a carmine tunic that he had buttoned just slightly higher than usual—it was an occasion for modesty. Hawke matched him in a black gown with a bodice of such dark red that it may as well have been black, her only concession to color. She was still in mourning, had already been before the rest of the city joined her.

She expected Varric to crack some joke about her in a dress, perhaps something about where she was hiding her daggers (strapped to her thighs beneath the voluminous skirts, where she could reach them through special slits hidden within the folds), but he merely smiled, offered his arm, and said, “Shall we, beautiful?”

And he never once complained about how much weight she let rest on that arm as he walked her through the cool evening to Viscount's Keep.

“Let's play pretend,” Varric whispered just before they entered. “You be the noble lady, and I'll be the gallant knight defending you from dragons, Knight-Commanders, and unwanted suitors.”

“Very well, Ser Tethras.” She paused, recalling a story he had once told her, a tale for children. “Just so long as I turn back into a pumpkin at midnight.”

He chuckled and escorted her in.

The ceremony itself was mercifully brief, with only a _few_ speeches. She scarcely remembered what she herself said to those assembled, words read from a scrap of paper Varric had thrust into her hand with a wink before stepping aside. They seemed to please the crowd, anyway, as his words always did.

Varric led her in the first dance and yielded the next. True to his word, her friend kept a watchful eye throughout the evening. He made sure she rested often—though perhaps not as often as Anders would have ordered—and refused to allow anyone to wear her out with a second dance. Attempting to give one dance to every person who asked was wearing enough, and she knew Varric turned away some on her behalf who had not received a first.

“Last dance,” he told her, far into the evening. At first she thought he meant to have that dance for himself, but he did not hold out his hand to her.

“I'm not sure I can take even one more,” she admitted.

“You'll want to, Hawke.” Varric gave her a smile tinged with...something she didn't know how to define. “Trust me.”

At first she didn't know who she was to dance with. Then her partner slid out from behind a knot of gossiping nobles. He was dressed like a shadow in shades of grey, including gloves and a high-collared jacket that covered all his markings save the ones on his chin, and—

“You're wearing shoes,” she accused him and immediately wished that she had thought of something more intelligent to say.

“Yes.”

“Afraid I'm going to step on your toes?”

“No.” Fenris offered his hand, and she caught a glimpse of red hidden beneath the cuff of his sleeve. She accepted, and he drew her onto the dance floor. It felt strange to have his hand holding hers, the other on her waist. Stranger still was his confidence in the way he held her and led her as if he had danced these steps his entire life.

He said no more as they danced, and finally she ventured, “I was worried about you.”

“ _You_ were worried about _me._ ” His eyebrow rose an inch.

“You never visited. Everybody else came, but not you.” She took a breath. “I was beginning to think you were upset with me.”

“Upset with you.”

“ _Yes_ , Fenris.” To her shame, she felt tears sting at her eyes. It had been a long evening. “Can you say anything other than repeating my own words back to me?”

“Venhedis,” he breathed. “I nearly got you killed, yet you concern yourself with my opinion of you.”

“I happen to value your opinion of me, in case you've forgotten.”

He looked past her over her shoulder. “I haven't forgotten.”

“Why have you stayed away?” She watched his face, but he did not meet her eyes. “Varric says you've been taking jobs outside the city.”

“Someone is required to take care of things in your absence.”

She didn't see how her patrols were so important in the scheme of things, but that was beside the point. “Do you expect to clear the entire coast all on your own?”

“You rescued the city all on your own.” Fenris halted in his steps but did not let go and still did not look at her. “And I am the one who put you in that position.”

Other dancers turned and swirled around them in pairs; other eyes bored into her, watching the Champion stand still in the middle of the dance.

“I stood a better chance against the Arishok alone than we few stood against all his men.” She searched his face, willing him to understand that he was as much responsible for the victory as she was. “It was a clever idea, and the most practical choice given the circumstances.”

“It was the wrong choice.” His grip on her hand tightened. “I...Kirkwall needs you alive.”

Hawke lifted her other hand to his face and turned his chin to make him look at her. “Here I am. And I need my friends alive. Promise me you won't go on any more jobs alone.”

“I...will not go alone anymore.”

“Promise you'll come visit me.”

His eyes flickered away and then returned to her. “I will come.”

“Tomorrow.”

The music had stopped. The other dancers drifted away slowly, many watching her and her strange partner. Fenris let her go and took a step back.

“Tomorrow.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a brief description of self-injury for the purposes of blood magic.

_They were running again, and it wasn't the Templars this time. It wasn't a slip of the tongue or a neighbor with too-sharp eyes and too-suspicious a mind. Now, everybody was running—even the great Loghain Mac Tir had run when he was meant to fight._

“ _Mother, we have to go now.” Carver tugged at their mother's elbow with a gentleness his sister had not seen since before they had joined King Cailan's army. But he was insistent, too, and he did not let her turn around to check again that she had everything she needed to take._

_The Hawke sisters stood together outside the house, waiting, feet shifting. It had been too many years since the last time they had to run. Leandra had let old habits lapse, or perhaps it was that this time, she would be leaving her husband as well as her home behind. But there was no more time to prepare. The glow of fire from the village grew brighter over the trees._

_Imogen watched the light like a last sunset. “If it has to burn, I don't want it to be at the hands of those monsters.” She turned to look at her sister. “I won't let them have it.”_

_Bethany nodded slowly. Fire erupted from the head of her staff like a torch. Once Carver and their mother reached them, she lifted the staff and let loose a burst of flame. It caught on the thatched roof and spread._

_Imogen allowed them to watch for just a few minutes while the house they had lived in for the greater part of their lives, the home their father had built with his own skill and sweat, began to burn. Then she turned away, expecting her family to follow close behind._

_It was time to run again._

* * *

 

Hawke smiled as she listened to the drumbeat of hammers on nails, the melody of saws against boards, the music of construction. One of her first public actions as Champion had been to establish, with Varric's help and advice, a rebuilding fund to speed repairs to the damage done by the Qunari invasion—and in the wake of it. She had seeded the fund with her own money, but many noble and well-to-do families made large (and loud) contributions. Some others, displeased with how the funds were to be allocated, just as loudly refused to contribute.

The first and largest portion went to Lowtown, a not-insignificant amount set aside for the elven alienage. Much of the damage done to the alienage had come, not from the Qunari, but from angry humans who blamed elves for sparking the Arishok's actions. The two elven fugitives who had sought refuge under the protection of the Qun had been neither seen nor heard from since. Whether they had converted from sincere belief or simply to evade the law was a hotly debated topic.

Hawke wasn't sure there was a real difference, under the circumstances.

“You shouldn't have defended the fugitives in front of the Arishok,” Aveline had said as soon as Anders deemed his patient recovered enough for an argument. “It didn't help matters.”

“It couldn't have made matters worse. Besides—“ Hawke shook her head. “—maybe it did help. It gave the Arishok a reason to respect me...as someone who doesn't place the law above justice.”

This earned her a glare. “Do you really believe that murder was justified?”

“Do you really believe it wasn't?” She glared right back. “If that guardsman had laid a hand on Bethany, do you think I would have gone and complained to a magistrate? No, I would have cut him down without a second thought, and you wouldn't have done a thing to stop me. You probably would have helped.”

“That's...” Aveline's stern countenance faltered just a little.

“Different? Because I'm a friend of the Guard-Captain? Because I have money and reputation to fall back on?” Hawke paused. “Because I'm human?”

“You know that's not why.”

Hawke didn't like to imply that Aveline harbored any prejudice or supported any injustice towards the elves, but there was no denying that the Guard-Captain allowed her friends to get away with things that would have gotten anyone else marched to prison, if they even made it that far.

“I know,” she corrected, “that it doesn't matter to _you,_ but it does to a lot of people. These elves, they tried to go through the system. They reported the guard first, which is more than I would have done. I can't blame them for believing they would find better justice from the Qun when human law did nothing. Maybe Sebastian's right—that's our failing.”

To much of the human population, however, it was a failing of the elves—all elves. That blame had translated to a spate of harassment, vandalism, and one near-riot held at bay by Aveline and a group of her best men. The most blatant of the aggression against the elves subsided after Hawke effectively declared herself protector of the alienage, but it didn't stop everyone. Each day of progress in the effort to rebuild brought with it the discovery of more new damage, mostly small things like broken windows and graffiti.

This morning, no new reports had yet come. Hawke sat beneath the shade of the vhenadahl tree and surveyed the work going on around her. She was still under strict orders from Anders not to “strain” herself, but it was Orana who forced her to take frequent breaks and scolded her if she attempted any task that might aggravate her almost-healed injuries.

“Messere,” the girl said sternly, “there's no reason to trouble yourself when Captain Vallen's men have everything handled. If you must keep yourself busy, you may help me lay out the lunch table.”

Hawke was so pleased to see Orana's blossoming confidence that she obeyed without question. Something about looking after Hawke during her recuperation, or helping to organize the repair efforts in the alienage, or both had brought out an authoritative streak in the former slave.

Also, as much as Hawke itched to take up a hammer and help, it was true that the guardsmen had most of the work covered. They had come out in force—on a strictly volunteer basis, though few who were off-duty had failed to show up—to join the work party that day. Most of the reconstruction had to go on without Hawke's direct supervision, which was fine by her, but she had decided to make an event of it once a week. A crew of volunteers would come out to focus on a different home or business each time and get as much work done as possible on that one building before the daylight failed.

After helping Orana set up the communal luncheon, much but not all from her own kitchen, she served a portion onto a wooden platter and settled on the ground beneath the tree. Soon a group had gathered around her to share the meal. Aveline sat with her, but Donnic had joined another group, and most of the other guardsmen were spread out evenly among the clusters of elves. Hawke saw Varric holding court nearby, waving his hands expressively, and Sebastian had attracted his own following—mostly young women. The rest of Hawke's friends were absent. Isabela still had not turned up anywhere. Anders had too much work at the clinic. And Fenris had studiously avoided public places since his appearance at the Champion's Ball.

“I haven't seen Merrill today,” Aveline commented. She shifted to accommodate a little girl who had insinuated herself between them. The child looked about four or five years old—Hawke adjusted her estimate upwards to account for the size difference between elves and humans—and was now staring adoringly up at the red-headed woman.

“Looks like you have a future guardswoman in the making.” Hawke grinned at her friend's discomfort at the child's attention. “But yes. I think I'll pay Merrill a visit after lunch.”

She did just that, half an hour later. Merrill did not come to the door but called out faintly from somewhere within the house when Hawke knocked. Hawke slipped inside to find the front room only dimly lit from a fire that had burned low, and she picked her way to the back where the mage's bedroom lay. She could still hear the sound of work coming through the walls.

Merrill sat where Hawke had often found her in the past, on the floor before the broken mirror that dominated the space, legs folded beneath her.

“Why haven't you come out to help with the work today?” Hawke asked from the doorway. “We could use you out there.”

“I'm busy.” Merrill spat out the word with the force of a flung dagger. “Since you stole the arulin'holm, my work has taken ten times the effort to make half as much progress as it should.”

“If you recall, your Keeper _gave_ the arulin'holm to me for safekeeping, and I intend to keep it safe.” She took a few steps further into the room and sighed at what she saw. “Merrill, what have you done to yourself?”

Merrill sat with her hands resting on her knees, facing up. Dark, dried blood crusted thin lines across her palms and dotted the floor beneath them. A slim dagger, with stains along the edge that looked like rust but were not, lay at her side.

Hawke stood there for a minute in the silence before going back to the main room, to a drawer that she knew would have what she needed—bandages, a clean rag. She took them, returned to Merrill, and sat down on the floor beside her.

The Dalish girl didn't protest as Hawke tended to her hands, cleaning the cuts with the rag and water from the small canteen she carried on her belt. Then she wrapped both hands tightly in the bandages, criss-crossing over the wounds on her palms. Neither spoke while this ritual was completed.

Once the bandages were secured on both sides, Hawke stood and gathered the bloodied rag and kife. She tossed the rag in the fireplace and held the blade in the flames to cleanse it. While she was turning it over in the fire, she heard Merrill come up behind her and drop into a chair more heavily than someone of her slight frame should have been able to manage.

“I don't understand,” Hawke said without looking up, “why you spend your time on a broken mirror and ancient history when there are people right outside your front door whom you could be helping now.”

“They have you to help them.” Merrill's voice held the same bitter tone. “After all, you are the Champion, and I'm just...what was it you called me? A stupid little girl.”

Hawke snorted and shook her head. “I'm trying to offer you a solution for that. Besides, you have more stake in what happens to the alienage than I do.”

“Because they're elves? Does that mean your Fenris is out there today, whistling while he works?”

The idea of Fenris whistling startled her into another moment's silence before she shook the image off.

“Because you _live here._ Andraste's sake, the house we're working on is right next door to yours—you even share a wall.” Hawke stood and set the knife on the table between them, resisting the temptation to stab the point into the wooden surface. “And Fenris is not 'mine.'”

“Just because he doesn't know it doesn't mean it's not true.” Merrill sniffed. “And all of you think I'm the one who doesn't understand anything, when he can't decide if he wants to get closer or run away. I suppose that's what you and I are both good at, isn't it? Making people run away.”

Hawke's fingers twitched towards the handle of the knife, but she forced herself still. “Fine, Merrill. Stay locked up in your house all alone if you like.” She hissed the lie out through her teeth: “It's not as if anyone is left who cares.”


	10. Chapter 10

_Anders handed the letter back to Hawke. “I'm...glad she's safe. I didn't realize she was a friend of Bethany's.”_

“ _Does that make a difference?” She raised an eyebrow at her friend as she folded the sheet of paper and tucked it away. It had arrived earlier that morning from the Gallows._

“ _It would have made it worse, if things had gone differently.” He grimaced. “But to justice, no, it doesn't matter either way.”_

_Hawke couldn't tell if he meant Justice the spirit or justice the concept. Or both. “And what does Justice think of all this?”_

“ _He does not believe it was right to send Ella back to the Circle, where some other Templar will certainly rise to replace Ser Alrik and his cruelties. But he agrees that killing her would have been just as bad.”_

_It worried her that he did not say killing the girl would have been_ worse, _but she let him continue without comment._

“ _We also agreed that...” He stared down at his hands for a moment before taking a breath and meeting her eyes. “Hawke, it was my rage that warped him, my anger at the thought that a girl could be so broken by the Templars' abuses that she would willingly go back to endure more. But that isn't why she was afraid, was it?”_

“ _No, it wasn't.” She would not soon forget the image of Ella on her knees, staring up in despair at Justice blazing out from behind Anders' eyes._

“ _It was me she was afraid of.” He took a step closer, held out a tentative hand towards Hawke's, not as if to hold it, but as if there were some secret there. “If that happens again, if I lose control of myself and turn my friend into a demon, you must promise...”_

_She took his hand between hers. “You can learn control. I was able to bring you back to yourself this time.”_

“ _This time,” he echoed. “But what about the next? If Vengeance takes control again, and you cannot talk me down, then you must_ put _me down. Stop me from hurting anyone, and set Justice free.”_

“ _Yes.” Slowly, she released his hand. As it dropped away, she turned another place in her heart to stone. “If it becomes necessary, I promise I will kill you.”_

* * *

 

Hawke leaned on the half wall at the edge of the docks and stared out over the water. Fenris joined her, resting one hip against the wall next to her. She could feel him regarding her, thinking, but was content to wait until he decided to speak up.

The day had gone well, with a short patrol along the coast to test Hawke's returning strength. It had been more of a hike than anything else, but she did get to have her first fight since the Arishok; a solitary raider had attacked with his hounds and not lived to regret his foolishness.

Hawke would have to build up her strength for longer patrols and tougher fights, but it was a solid beginning.

Before dropping Anders off at Darktown, they had left Varric at the Hanged Man. He had paused at the door to look at her in a way she had never imagined to see from him. It wasn't a glare—he didn't even seem angry—but a look of such disappointment that she wanted to fall on her knees and beg forgiveness.

She told herself she didn't care what Merrill thought, but she could never convince herself that Varric's opinion didn't matter. He didn't even have to say what was wrong. He just sighed and shook his head before going inside. But of course Merrill would have gone straight to Varric after the barbs they had flung at each other. With Isabela gone, he was the only one who didn't see the blood mage as, at best, a threat. So she had probably cried on his shoulder and then asked him to tell her a story to help her forget about mean old Hawke. Wicked Hawke. Cruel-tongued Hawke who chased everyone she cared about away.

She told herself she didn't care what Merrill thought, but a growl escaped her throat.

“Hawke.”

“It's nothing.”

“Hawke?”

She shook her head and looked at Fenris. “Sorry, what?”

“Do you intend to stay here all day, or are you planning to follow...to pay a visit to Darktown?”

“I'm just lost in thought.” She managed a smile. “You don't have to wait for me if you're heading back to Hightown. I can drag my sorry ass back home even without you or Anders hovering over me.”

“The abom—“ Fenris stopped and cleared his throat. “That man is in love with you.”

“What?” Hawke was losing track of this conversation awfully quickly.

His eyebrows disappeared behind his hair. “He wants you. Surely it has not escaped your notice.”

“I'm...aware of his feelings.” For lack of anything else to do with her hands, she tucked back a strand of hair that had come loose from her bun. “Not sure why you're bringing it up, though.”

“For some unfathomable reason, you seem to care for that creature.” Fenris let out an audible breath. “Why do you not go to him?”

She blinked several times. She had expected something scathing...well, something more scathing. “You hate Anders. So why does it almost sound as if you _want_ me to go to him?”

“I want...” His throat bobbed. “I want you to be happy.”

“Do you think I'm unhappy?”

He stared at her. “Yes.”

“Oh.” Hawke realized that it had been a long time since she had even thought about whether she was happy or unhappy. It just...didn't seem an important thing to consider. That anybody else might consider it felt strange. “And you believe Anders would change that?”

“You enjoy his company. His conversation. You share many of his...ideals.” Fenris listed these qualities with obvious strain, each item adding to the tension in his jaw, his shoulders, his curled fists. In a lower voice, he added, “And you watch him all the time, when he isn't looking.”

“Maybe I'm watching him for the same reason I watch Merrill.” She folded her arms over her chest. “To make sure they don't start summoning demons or something.”

“You don't look at him the way you look at the witch. With her, you are wary. When you look at him...you seem sad.”

“Obviously that must mean I'm pining away for him.” She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Not that Fenris ever refrained from doing so when he thought _she_ was being ridiculous. “I know perfectly well what he feels. In the past, I might have encouraged his attention.” _I did encourage him, fool that I was._ “But I have no intent—or desire—to be anything more than Anders' friend.”

For a long moment, he was silent. He looked away from her, but she kept watching his face and could tell from the thinning of his lips, the slight narrowing of his eyes, that he was thinking hard, coming to some conclusion.

“The dwarf, then.” He said it as if it were not a suggestion but a settled matter. “You two are close.”

They could not truly be having this conversation.

“Even if Varric weren't already spoken for—“ Hawke raised an eyebrow and mimed shooting a crossbow. “—he's not into humans. Are you going to throw Knight-Captain Cullen at my head next?”

Fenris gave her a calculating look. “Sebastian.”

“And face Bethany's wrath?” She threw her hands up. “May Andraste strike me down first. No, thank you.”

“Then perhaps a woman—“

“Fenris.” Her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist without her even thinking about it. “Stop this.”

He froze and dropped his gaze to where her hand rested, fingers curled over the ribbon tied around his gauntlet.

“Taking a lover on the merits of proximity or convenience isn't going to magically make me happy.” She relaxed her grip and pulled away. “I don't—that's not something I do casually.”

He winced.

“What I mean is...” Hawke scrubbed her face with her hands. “I'm fine. I don't need you to worry about me.”

From the skepticism etched across his face, she was fairly certain he didn't intend to stop.

“What _do_ you need?” Fenris asked after a pause. 

“ _You,”_ she wanted to say. She briefly allowed herself to imagine how he might react if she did say it, how she would want him to respond, before tucking that thought away for later perusal. If she were honest with herself, if she admitted that he was right about her being unhappy, she also had to admit that he was not the cause of it. Or the solution.

“For starters, I'd like to forget that you thought it was a good idea to suggest potential lovers to me.” She flashed him a tight grin, but it faded quickly. “Other than that...I don't know, Fenris. I don't know.”


	11. Chapter 11

_She found Bethany on one knee in the Chantry, head bent over clasped hands, eyes closed and mouth moving silently. Her sister was like a beacon in the sleepy warmth of mid-afternoon light that trickled through the Chantry windows, and she closed in quickly to kneel behind the younger girl._

“ _What are you doing here?” Hawke hissed in Bethany's ear._

_It took a few more whispered syllables before Bethany paused to answer. “What does it look like, Imogen?”_

“ _You need to go home and stay with Mother.”_

“ _Not until I'm finished praying for you and Carver.” She turned her head just enough to glare at Imogen from the corner of her eye. “If you're not here to pray, which you should be, then go away.”_

“ _Fine, but hurry it up.” Imogen tugged on a strand of her sister's hair for emphasis as she got back to her feet. “I don't want you in here any longer than necessary.”_

_She waited just inside the Chantry door, leaning against the wall and glowering at the few people who passed in and out. The only one who seemed to notice was the red-headed Orlesian lay sister Carver was always making eyes at. The woman graced her with an amused lift of her eyebrow, which did nothing to improve Imogen's mood. Finally, Bethany stood and took her sweet time brushing off her skirt before sweeping out past her elder sister without a word._

_Imogen caught up in an instant and stuck close to her heel. “You need to stay away from the Chantry. I'm not going to be here to protect you.”_

“ _No, you'll be protecting my idiot brother instead.”_

_She grabbed Bethany's elbow and dragged her to a stop. “What, do you think this is my fault? It's not as if I_ want _to choose which of my siblings to look after. Mother will kill me if her precious boy gets a scratch on him.”_

“ _And so the both of you ruin the whole point of him signing up for the army.” Bethany turned back to her and rolled her eyes. “It's certainly not for the feeble excuse of sending home his pay to Mother.”_

“ _Should I just let him go off on his own to get killed?”_

“ _Don't you dare.” Tears threatened to brim over Bethany's eyelashes. “Don't you dare come back without him.”_

_Mother had said the exact same thing. Prayers to the Maker were useless, but this...this was something Imogen could do. She gathered her sister up in her arms and whispered into her hair._

“ _I swear to the Maker and his Bride that I'll bring Carver home safe. Not a scratch on him, Bethy.”_

_She felt the damp of her sister's tears soak through her shirt._

“ _Bring yourself home safe as well.”_

“ _I will,” Imogen promised. But she knew, if it came down to it, Bethany would find her twin brother the harder loss to bear._

* * *

 

Fenris sat in a chair in the corner of Hawke's library. A book sat open on his knees, which were drawn up close to his chest. His bare toes curled over the edge of the seat.

They presented too tempting a target for Pretty, who trotted into the room ahead of his mistress and gave each foot a cursory lick. The elf scowled but did not look up from the pages.

“What has you concentrating so hard?” Hawke ducked her head to catch a glimpse of the book's title. _“Hard in Hightown,_ of course. Trying to figure out who murdered the magistrate?”

Over the last several months, it had become a regular occurrence to find Fenris in the library outside of their normal lesson times with his nose in a book. She had offered to lend him any book he wanted from her growing collection, but he had declined to take his selections back to his mansion where the roof threatened to leak and ruin the pages. He had scoffed, at first, at the idea of reading Varric's fiction, but became a grudging fan after Hawke wheedled him into trying a chapter.

“I have already determined the culprit.”

“Oh?” Hawke leaned against the door frame. “Care to let me in on the secret?”

“No.” Though he continued to stare at the page in front of him, a smirk tugged at his lips. “I have faith that you can deduce it for yourself. Or bully the answer out of Varric.”

“Varric never tells me what's going to happen in his books,” she said mournfully. “I don't think even Bianca knows.”

“Messere,” Bodahn spoke up behind her, “Master Vael has arrived with Orana.”

Hawke straightened and turned, smiling, towards the other room to see her servant on the arm of her friend. “Hello, Sebastian. Thank you for escorting Orana home.”

“It was no trouble, Lady Hawke.” Sebastian returned the smile easily and directed it to include everyone in the room. “Orana brought donations for the poor today and shared some lovely insights on the Canticle of Transfigurations. She truly has a generous spirit.”

Orana blushed and looked down into the empty basket on her arm. Hawke couldn't tell if it was from the compliment or just, well, _Sebastian._ Out of loyalty to her sister, she hoped for the former, but she couldn't blame the girl if it were the latter. Even she had felt a certain weakness in the knees the first few times he turned that smile on her.

“That she does,” Hawke agreed. When she had learned that Orana was using part of her wages to buy food for the poor every week, she had decided to contribute some of the household funds as well. Remembering her mother's advice, she was careful not to take over, to let it remain Orana's project. “Would you like to stay a while? Fenris is here.”

“I'm afraid I must return to the Chantry, but please convey my greetings and good wishes to Fenris.”

Once Sebastian was safely on his way again, Hawke turned back to the library. Fenris still sat in the same position. Pretty, the traitor, had curled up just below his feet.

“Fenris, I am hereby conveying Sebastian's greetings and good wishes,” Hawke said with a smirk as she made her way across the room.

“So I hear.”

She watched him for a minute, the way he frowned at the letters on the page, the way his shoulders moved as he breathed, the way he lifted just a single finger to turn the page. Then she let out a breath—audible enough to draw his eyes momentarily towards hers—and dropped into the chair adjacent to his. He returned his attention to the book so quickly it was as if he had never looked at her at all.

“Orana puts me to shame, sometimes,” she said with another sigh.

This time, he raised his eyebrows without taking his gaze from the book. “How is that?”

“For someone who has so much less than I do, she's much quicker to give it away,” Hawke pointed out.

“Orana would do well to save her money and look after herself instead of everyone else.”

“I can't say I entirely disagree with that, but it's her money to spend as she chooses.” She leaned over to try and catch a glimpse of where he was in the story, but he shifted automatically as if to hide a hand of cards. “I, on the other hand, have much more money than I need for myself, and watching Orana makes me feel that I ought to be doing something... _better_ with it.”

“Hawke,” Fenris said in that exasperated tone that suggested she had just said something ridiculous. “You may not always be kind, but no one could accuse you of being uncharitable.”

“Oh, I can think of a few people who would do exactly that.”

“Uncharitable in your opinions, perhaps.” He shrugged. “But not with your coin. Who was it that set back the Deep Roads expedition by donating half the funds to that Ferelden charity?”

“Bethany.” Hawke slouched in her chair and crossed her arms, ready to argue. “She had to talk me into it.”

“Then who has kept the Darktown clinic supplied with potions for the last four years?”

Though Fenris had not turned the page in too long, he still kept his eyes on it. She wanted him, selfishly, to be looking at her again instead of the book.

“Hmph. What use is Anders to me if he can't keep his stamina up because he's too worn out from running the clinic?”

That was not quite enough to do it, but he let out a long breath through his teeth. “I suppose the rebuilding fund is nothing but selfishness, in that case.”

“I doubt the idea would have occurred to me at all if not for Orana's inspiration.” She frowned. “Anyway, that's as much politics as it is anything. If this city wants me as its Champion, then I'll have them know I'm the Champion of all of it, not just Hightown. I wouldn't call that charity any more than I'd call my semi-regular attendance at Chantry services 'faith.'”

“You're not a believer?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “I took it that your family was devout.”

“Mother and the twins, yes.” Hawke shifted in her seat. It had been a long time since she had spoken openly about her beliefs—Hightown was little more welcoming to heretics than Lothering had been. But if anyone would understand, it was Fenris. “I...suppose I take more after my father. He taught me that belief is not the same as faith.”

“Ah. Yes.” 

“I suppose I believe in the Maker and in the core of what the Chantry teaches about him.” She examined Fenris's face in profile. His eyes, still locked on the page in front of him, seemed focused on something beyond ink and paper. “But...I can't help but have overheard some of Sebastian's attempts to bring you into the fold, and what you told him was absolutely right; the Maker doesn't care about you or me. He had nothing to do with saving you from slavery. You rescued yourself.”

His lip curled in a bitter smile. “As you rescued yourself from the darkspawn in Lothering, I presume.”

She remembered the witch Flemeth, whom Merrill called Asha'bellanar, and shook her head. “What help I received certainly came from no god, at any rate. How can I have faith in the Maker when he turns his back on his supposed 'children' and will only deign to look upon us if enough of us get on our knees and beg? Now, Andraste—“ She tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. “—Andraste is someone I could consider having faith in. At least she did something to help people, but she's just as far away as the Maker, now, if she has anything to do with him at all. What's the point of believing in someone who isn't even here to help anymore? People need...”

“A Champion?” Fenris supplied.

That startled a laugh from her throat. “Hardly.”

“Could you imagine yourself in Andraste's stead, gathering an army to march on Tevinter and free the slaves?” He met her eyes now, but there was challenge in the set of his jaw. “Or, if the mage were to have his way, march on the Gallows to free all the mages?”

She couldn't help a wry smile at the way his voice devolved into a grumble at the mention of Anders and his ideals.

Either way, she had to admit it was a compelling fantasy. And yet... “Revolution is a bit ambitious for me. And I think I'll skip the part about being burned at the stake and then run through.” Her hand moved unconsciously to the scar on her abdomen, and she shook away the image, like stained glass, of crimson flames surrounding herself in Andraste's place. “Besides, there's really no Andraste without Shartan, is there? And I don't even have a husband to betray me to my death.”

“Any man who would betray you, Hawke, is a fool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcanon that Orana feels more comfortable around Sebastian than around the female Chantry clerics because the Tevinter Chantry she grew up with has men as clerics instead of women.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place at the end of and contains spoilers for the "Legacy" DLC.

_Imogen stared at her father's hand and the bright blood that welled up from the gash at the base of his forefinger. The babies' nameday was coming, and he had been carving the face of a doll for little Bethany when his hand slipped._

“ _Immy, my sweet,” he said in a low, steady tone, “run and fetch me the bandage box. If your mother sees you with it, tell her I said it's nothing to worry herself about.”_

_She ran, and her mother did not see her when she went inside the house. Imogen was good at slipping by unnoticed. In the kitchen, she found the wooden box with all the things her parents used to fix little hurts, like when she skinned her knees. It held a few clean rags, and rolls of bandages that her mother cut from old sheets, and a curved needle and strong thread, and a bottle of a clear, strong-smelling liquid that stung her eyes._

_When she returned with the box to her father, he was standing in the exact spot where she had left him. He held his wounded hand close to his face, and the look in his eyes scared Imogen a little. It seemed that he was staring past his hand, or through it, at something she couldn't see._

_He startled when she dropped the box down on his workbench, but his eyes refocused on her._

“ _Thank you, Immy.” He smiled, and she wondered at how he didn't cry, hurt as he was. She would have been crying. “Now, open that up, and I'll show you how to help me.”_

_He showed her how to clean the cut with a rag and the stinging stuff from the bottle, and how to wrap and tie the bandage tight around his hand so that it wouldn't slip. Imogen was good at knots. The needle and thread stayed tucked in their place in the corner of the box._

“ _Aren't you going to heal yourself?” she asked even though she already knew his answer._

“ _Magic can be useful, my love, but sometimes it's better to let nature do its own work.”_

* * *

 

Merrill was fawning over Varric, had been since he and Anders and Fenris had emerged with Hawke from the ancient Grey Warden prison and stumbled back into camp. She curled against his side and petted his hair as he told again how they had made their way up through the underground tower, how they had released and defeated the strange, ancient darkspawn that had claimed to be a magister. In unspoken agreement with Hawke, Varric left certain details out of the telling.

Hawke watched across the fire and could not decide if Merrill looked more like a lover or a daughter in the way she clung to him. It was often the way with her, this blurring of the lines between adult and child, dark knowledge and naivete. Varric seemed perfectly comfortable with the ambiguity, but Hawke found her hands once again curled into fists and had to force herself to release them, slowly, joint by joint.

She stood, drawing the attention of the others gathered around the campfire.

“I need...” she began and shrugged. Some air? To stretch her legs? It didn't seem to matter what excuse she chose, and no one demanded one of her. Pretty whined up at her, but remained where he sat.

She left the group; more to the point, she left her _sister_ safely ensconced between Sebastian and Aveline. Bethany held her inheritance stretched out in front of her, rolling the staff over and over in her hands to catch the firelight. A part of Hawke wished to stay with her, to tell her more about hearing their father's voice and the words he had spoken, to spend as much time together as possible before they had to return to Kirkwall and Bethany to the Gallows. But Hawke had never been able to lie convincingly to her sister, and she wasn't about to let Bethany know everything she had discovered about Malcolm Hawke over the last several days. Let her instead enjoy this brief freedom in the company of her friends.

As Hawke strolled out into the night, away from the fire, she passed by Anders without speaking. He sat on the ground with his back pressed against the bit of ruined wall that marked their camp, head back and eyes closed. Their time in the Warden prison had not been kind to him, either, and she had almost been given cause to fulfill her promise to him. Whatever occupied his thoughts now, she would not pry but leave him to it.

The moon paved her path across the sand, and Hawke was not the first who had traveled along it. She couldn't guess why Fenris had separated himself from the others upon their return except perhaps to rid himself of lingering claustrophobia, the feeling of being trapped beneath the earth again as they had once been in the Deep Roads. Whatever the reason, here he was, standing fixed in the sand, in the midst of rolling nothingness, facing away from the distant fire and the companionship that waited there.

He shifted to acknowledge her presence at his back when she approached. She slowed her steps and drew alongside him without a word. At his feet, his armor lay in pieces in the sand, his tunic discarded with him. She wondered how he could stand there, half-clothed, while she crossed her arms against the chill of the desert night. Blue moonlight washed over his skin and he seemed to bask in it the way some basked in the sun. It was bright enough to highlight the contours of his muscles, yet it softened and blurred the lines of his lyrium markings almost into obscurity.

“Are you happy, Fenris?”

Her own voice sounded to her only like the brush of the wind over the sand, and he took so long to answer that, until he did, she wasn't sure he had heard her at all.

“I am glad to be beneath the sky again.” The words drew out of him with a hint of uncertainty, but his voice felt more solid than anything else at that moment.

“That's not what I meant.”

He didn't make a second attempt to answer.

“Does it make you happy to know that the incorruptible Malcolm Hawke was a maleficar?” She looked away when he turned to face her. “There, my great and shining example of how a mage can live his life free without ever giving in to temptation. Does it gratify you to know that I was wrong, that even he used blood magic?”

“Why would that please me?” His tone sliced sharp against her skin. “I don't wish for mages to succumb—I only see that it happens time and again.”

Something resembling a laugh escaped her throat. “And now you have more proof of that, don't you? I suppose we'll just have to wait and see how long it takes for blood magic to take my sister from me, too.”

“No.” Fenris stepped closer, but she still wouldn't look back at him. “Your father did not succumb to temptation. He was coerced.”

“Does it matter? You said it yourself: 'Mages always find a way to justify their need for power.'”

“I am not happy that Malcolm Hawke used blood magic. It doesn't please me that your father disappointed you. But _Hawke—"_ He took her face between his hands and forced her to face him. She felt the scratch of fabric between his left palm and her cheek as she stared into his eyes. “—I am happy that it means you live.” 

He seemed to realize he was touching her and jerked his hands back as if burned. His eyes narrowed.

“Fenris...”

“The Grey Warden would have killed Leandra while she was carrying you, had he refused to perform the ritual. Your father acted to protect her and you.” He stepped back from Hawke, and she could see now that his left hand held a length of dark ribbon, colorless in the moonlight. “His was not the greater evil, and I...can't say I would have chosen differently, in his position.”

She couldn't guess how much it cost him to say that. “Do you think I should have killed Larius?”

That was the other question still haunting her. Under other circumstances, she would not have hesitated to take vengeance, but siding with Larius, too, had seemed the lesser evil. Still, something had seemed... _wrong_ about him when he took his leave. She couldn't shake the sense that she had made a mistake in letting him go.

“Perhaps,” Fenris answered finally, “but it would not have freed you from your pain.”


	13. Chapter 13

_Hawke stood on the table, wobbling precariously, and lifted her glass high above her head. A few drops sloshed over the rim and dripped down her arm, and she could swear the stuff was so strong it burned her skin. It certainly burned her throat going down, but so far she had kept up with Varric glass for glass even as the others fell behind._

“ _To brothers,” she declared, pronouncing each syllable a little too carefully. “There's no one better for getting you into trouble.”_

_She threw back the shot in one bitter gulp, teetered, and then felt too many hands guiding her off the table and back into her seat. One hand got a little too friendly, and she brushed it away from her rump, not sure if it belonged to Anders or Isabela or one of the many strangers who had crowded in to join their celebration._

“ _Brothers,” Varric agreed. “May the nug-humping, blighted sons of bitches all rot in the Void.” He drank and winced. “Sorry, Hawke.”_

“ _No.” She sprawled in her seat and shook her head. “They're_ all _useless. If Carver hadn't been such a reckless, idiotic show-off, he'd have been here to look after Bethany and keep her out of the Circle while we were in the Deep Roads. So he can rot with Bartrand. Or rather, Bartrand can rot with him once we hunt the bastard down.”_

_Merrill regarded her with wide eyes while most of the others looked away._

“ _I'm sorry,” Varric said again, and the way his face softened showed well enough that he knew what she was really thinking._

_She saw herself, more than Carver, in Bartrand._

“ _So!” Hawke's voice was over-bright in the dim tavern. “Anyone else have brothers?” There was a round of head-shakes around the table. “Or sisters? We're really just as bad. Varric?”_

“ _One brother is plenty. I shudder to think what havoc a sister could wreak on the Tethras family.”_

“ _What about you, Fenris?” He had been quiet, not drinking as much as the others. “No siblings back in Tevinter?”_

_She regretted the question the instant it left her mouth and forgot why the instant after that._

“ _None that I'm aware of.”_

“ _That certainty is such a compliment to your father,” Anders said with a laugh._

_Fenris just blinked and turned a bland expression on the mage, but Hawke had begun to learn how to read him. She saw the tension in his jaw and wanted to reach out across the table and smooth it away. But she wasn't quite drunk enough for that, yet._

_Varric stepped in. “What about you, Blondie?”_

“ _Not that I—“ Anders started and stopped with a grimace._

“ _Such a compliment to your father,” Fenris murmured._

“ _No less than he deserves.” Anders hunched forward over his drink. “I was twelve when he had the templars come and take me away to the Circle. If my parents had any other children after that, no one bothered to let me know.”_

“ _Fuck, don't remind me of the Circle right now.” Hawke tapped her fingers on the table as if by doing so, she could shake away all the things Anders had told her about the Circle, all the things her father had told her. “All you lonely only children. Only lonely? Lucky bastards, anyway.”_

“ _Hawke,” Aveline said from the end of the table. She had remained the most sober out of all of them. “I think it's time for you to go sleep it off.”_

“ _Fuck off, Avie,” she answered with an amiable grin and held up her glass in silent demand for a refill. “You're not my mother. I already have one, thank you very much. But if you want to join the illustrious Hawke family _—_ Amell family, whatever _—_ she's probably taking applications for a new daughter to replace me.”_

* * *

 

Fenris shifted from one foot to the other, arms crossed over his chest as if to stand in for the armor that he had taken to leaving at the entrance with Bodahn whenever he visited Hawke's estate. He watched Orana's delicate fingers as she untied the string from around the package on the kitchen table between them. She unfolded the thick blue wrapping paper, careful not to tear it.

Her eyes widened when she discovered what was hidden within.

“It's a book!” she exclaimed, running her fingers over the green cover, as if it were some great surprise that he would think of such a thing as a gift for her. There were no words pressed into the leather, but each corner was embossed with a design of flowers. “Who is it by?”

Fenris pushed up a little onto his toes. “Open it and see.”

Hawke could hear the smile in his voice more than she could see it even though she had a clear view of his face from the kitchen doorway. His smiles were like that, small hidden things like secrets...or nameday gifts waiting to be unwrapped.

More than a year had passed before Hawke realized that they had not yet celebrated Orana's nameday. She thought at first that the girl's shyness or a lingering habit of servility had prevented her from mentioning it when the day first came around, but when asked, Orana had admitted that she didn't know the date of her own birth. There were probably records somewhere in Tevinter marking the acquisition of her mistress's new property, but a slave had little use for calendars and little cause to celebrate another year in captivity.

So, at Hawke's prompting, Orana had chosen a day for herself. She settled on the day that she joined Hawke's household, the day she gained her freedom. It was a bittersweet occasion because it was also the day her father died, but she didn't seem to mind the juxtaposition—she made it a celebration of her father's life as well as her own, a time to remember him and tell fond stories even as she made new memories.

Today marked three years of being her own woman.

Gingerly, Orana lifted the front cover of the book Fenris had given her and frowned. “It's...I don't understand.”

The pages were blank.

“You are the author of this book. Or...” Fenris brushed a lock of hair behind his ear. It was beginning to grow long. “You will be once you have written something in it.”

“It's like Messere Hawke's journal.” She picked it up and cradled it in her arms like a newborn infant. “But I don't know what to write. It's so pretty, I'm afraid I'll spoil it.”

Still, she held it close and looked up at him as if she were afraid he might take it back.

“You won't spoil it, Orana. Your thoughts are worth something pretty to put them in. You can write...” Pausing, he glanced at the ceiling and made a vague gesture with his hand. “...whatever you please.”

She looked skeptical, so Hawke put in, “If you like, we can talk about ideas at our next lesson.”

Truth be told, Hawke had never thought much about what she wrote in her own journal. It just seemed...obvious to record the events that happened to and around her as they occurred. But Varric had once gotten his hands on her journal—she didn't mind, much, since he was rescuing it from Isabela—and commented with a disappointed shake of his head that she wrote everything out like a grocery list. She made a mental note to ask him for suggestions later.

“Thank you,” Orana said.

She dropped a curtsy, the ruffled skirts of Hawke's gift billowing up around her. Leandra had taught Orana how to purchase her own clothing, and she maintained a respectable wardrobe of sturdy, serviceable clothes suitable for her work. But Hawke had watched her eyeing the gowns worn by fashionable ladies in the Market or at Chantry services and had taken note of what caught her attention.

Her preferences tended to be a bit... _Orlesian_ for Hawke's taste, but Hawke's preferences were a bit Fereldan for everyone else's tastes. A few quiet words with the dressmaker she had inherited from Leandra, and she had come up with something that was pretty without being so frilly that Orana would never have anyplace to wear it.

And tonight, she  _would_ be wearing it someplace; she had plans to attend a play with a few of her friends who worked in the neighboring households. They would be arriving any minute to gather her up and whisk her away for the evening's festivities. So, with a quick peck on Fenris's cheek—which reddened his face in a way that was delightful to behold—she dashed upstairs to put away her new journal and finish getting ready.

“Kirkwall's streets are dangerous at night,” Fenris grumbled to Hawke when she was gone, crossing his arms again. “I dislike the thought of her being out there.”

“She's staying overnight with a friend in the alienage, so she won't have to walk back after dark. And she's taking Pretty with her.” Hawke mirrored his gesture. She had to tamp down her own protective instincts—it was Orana's day, after all, and she had no right to keep her housebound anyway. “If you're that worried, I'm sure she'd be happy to have you join her party.”

Fenris leaned a hip against the kitchen table and raised his eyebrows. “I fear most of her friends would not find me a comforting presence.”

“That's just because they don't know you like I do.” Hawke grinned to play it off like a jest; she wasn't about to admit how much she really did find his presence comforting even if others were intimidated by him. “Or like Orana does. I'm glad you get along so well.” 

She wanted to say more, to point out how much good they had done for each other, how much they had both blossomed in each other's company. But she settled for saying, “She's fond of you.”

“She is...” He frowned and glanced at the ceiling as if searching for words. “...very much how I imagine my sister to be. If Varania is truly free. If she even exists at all.”

“If? You told Hadriana that you believed her.” Then again, he had also told Hadriana that he would spare her life, and look how that had turned out.

“Does it matter whether I believe or not? Either way, it's almost certainly a trap.” He shrugged, but the gesture came across as more forced than casual. “If Varania is real, she is beyond my reach. I don't dare return to the Imperium to seek her out.”

“I would go with you if you wanted me to.” She moved away from the doorway to join him at the table. It felt like an empty gesture when she knew he would never accept such an offer, but he had to know she was behind him.

His expression softened for a moment. “You are too willing to throw your life away.” Then he shook his head. “Hawke, they would kill you for harboring a fugitive just as surely as they would kill me for being one.”

“Then hire someone to go for you. Varric has contacts in Tevinter. Family, I think. I'm sure he could get you in touch with someone there who can investigate Hadriana's information.”

“You really think I should pursue this?” Fenris rubbed at the back of his neck as he regarded her. “Even though the information is old, and it's probably a trap.”

“This is a chance to learn about your past and possibly even regain some of your memories.” Maybe it would go better the second time around. “And if it is just a ploy, you can use it to draw Danarius out and turn his own trap against him.”

“That...may be something to consider.” He made a sound that was almost like a laugh. “Perhaps I will choose my own nameday then, like Orana. The day I am finally free of Danarius.”

“Fenris...” Hawke traced invisible patterns with her fingertips across the surface of the kitchen table. “Whatever happens, you have at least the chance of a family out there. If I could get Bethany back, or Carver, I wouldn't hesitate.”

“I know.” He studied her face. “You miss them. But I don't even remember my family. How can I miss something that I've never known?”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's aliiiiiiiiiiiiiive! 
> 
> (I can't believe I haven't updated since April.)
> 
> Check out this beautiful portrait of Imogen, painted by needlesslycryptic: http://needlesslycryptic.tumblr.com/post/128585906260/imogen-hawke-for-nyessagaming

_“Avie.”_

_“Hm.”_

_“Aveliiine...”_

_“What is it, Hawke?”_

_Hawke reached up her hand and stared at the silhouette it made where it blocked out the light of the stars. The roof of the Hanged Man didn't provide as good a view of the stars as Sundermount did, but it was the best she could do when she was stuck in the city. She turned her head to look at her friend stretched out beside her, little more than a shadow in the darkness._

_“Avie, when did you know you were in love with Wesley?”_

_Aveline was silent so long that Hawke began to worry that she shouldn't have spoken. It had been a little over a year since their escape from Lothering, and Aveline rarely mentioned her late husband. But the question came to mind as Hawke remembered evenings like this one spent with her sister, Bethany asking her something similar: “How did you know you were in love with Matthew?” And Hawke had answered with something sappy about the way he smiled when he looked at her._

_Only she wasn't certain anymore if what she had felt for the village boy could be considered love. It didn't seem right that a feeling like that could fade so easily, her recollection grown hazy behind the harsher, more glaring memories of Ostagar. She could barely recall the shape of his face; he might have had freckles and hair that tended to fall in front of his eyes. Matthew was probably dead, like most of Lothering, and the only feeling Hawke could muster was a soft, vague regret._

_“It was nothing terribly romantic,” Aveline finally said._

_Hawke shifted onto her elbow. “Well, we are talking about_ _you,_ _after all.”_

_She swore she could hear Aveline roll her eyes. “As if you're any more likely to tolerate bouquets of roses and...and love poetry.”_

_“I like flowers well enough. But you're dodging the question.” Hawke paused. “Unless Wesley recited love poems to you?”_

_“Nothing like that. He sang.”_

_“Oooh, a serenade?”_

_Aveline snorted. “Hardly. We were at the local tavern when someone started up with one of those awful drinking songs. You know, the one about Andraste's mabari?”_

_“Ah, that was Carver's favorite.” Hawke allowed herself to smile at the memory of her brother trying to teach the words to her and Bethany. “So, what, Wesley's voice was so melodious and beautiful that you swooned on the spot?”_

_“No, it was awful. Wesley—“ Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “—couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. But nobody had ever told him that, so he joined in the singing with such great enthusiasm that he drowned out everybody else. They all ended up staring at him while he sang the last verse alone, completely oblivious, and I just sat there grinning like a fool. That's when I knew.”_

_Hawke chuckled, trying to picture Aveline's face with a lovesick grin. “And you said it wasn't romantic.”_

_“Hawke.”_

_“Hm?”_

_“What made you ask?”_

_An image of fierce green eyes flashed through her mind unbidden._

_“No reason.”_

* * *

 

Even Varric was struck speechless by the sight of Aveline when she entered. She wore a crown of marigolds in her hair, a gown that left her shoulders bare to reveal a smattering of freckles across the pale skin, and a look of triumph that said no power in Thedas could shake her. Donnic couldn't seem to take his eyes off her through the whole ceremony, and who could blame him?

Nobody else could, either.

If anyone could be compared to Andraste herself, it was Aveline on that day. She bore an unsettling resemblance to a fresco Hawke had once seen of Andraste rising from her pyre as a bride to take her place at the Maker's side. But as the ceremony concluded and the cleric declared the couple wed, Hawke hoped for a better end for Aveline and her new husband.

They laughed during their first dance together, perhaps at some private joke or perhaps at the ridiculousness of them,dancing. Only they weren't so bad at it, after all. They both seemed to know the steps well enough, and any residual awkwardness from everyone staring at them melted away as they focused on one another. And when others stepped in to claim a dance with the bride or groom, they still watched each other over their partners' shoulders, eyes practically glowing.

It was sentimental and sweet, and Hawke was _not crying, damnit._

Once she had pulled herself together with the help of a discreet handkerchief proffered by Varric, she waded into the fray to take her turn around the dance floor with Donnic.

“Congratulations, Serah Vallen,” she said with a grin. “I assume we can consider the customary threats already made.”

“Yes, my understanding is that breaking my kneecaps is traditional for the occasion.” He raised an eyebrow. “I overheard Brennan making that threat to Aveline on my behalf this morning.”

“That one is popular,” Hawke conceded, “but there's also tearing out your whiskers with hot wax as an alternative.”

Donnic winced. “I imagine that would be rather effective. I'm not sure which is worse. Though I'd be more concerned about her wrath if I ever manage to make that much of an ass of myself.” Then his expression softened as he looked past her. “Still, I'm glad she has friends who look out for her even if I hope she never needs it.”

Hawke didn't need to turn her head to know who he was looking at.

When the dance concluded, she handed him back to Aveline. “Here you go. I roughed him up for you.”

Aveline raised her eyebrows as she took her husband's arm.

“Don't worry.” If Hawke were any good at winking, she would have done so. As it was, she left it at a smirk. “I didn't do any permanent damage.”

Hawke left the newlyweds to each other and retreated from the dance floor, dodging anyone who looked like they might ask her for a dance. Funny how dancing with a friend was so much more enjoyable than dancing with someone who probably wanted something from you. She made her way up to a balcony that overlooked the ballroom, stopping by a table of refreshments to pick up a little Orlesian cake along the way.

“It makes you think, doesn't it?”

She paused mid-bite at the sound of Varric's voice drifting up from below. Leaning over the railing, she peered down to see Varric seated at a small table against the wall. Fenris sat opposite him, arms crossed in front of his chest. Neither looked up at where she was standing, even when a dusting of powdered sugar shook loose from the cake in her hand and landed on Fenris's shoulder.

Hawke winced, pulled back from the railing, and finished off the cake in one more bite.

“I hesitate to guess at how your mind works,” Fenris said. “What, dare I ask, are you talking about?”

“Weddings, elf.” Varric gestured with both hands towards the room at large. “Makes you think about the future and what it holds. Marriage, babies, domestic bliss...shit like that.”

“Are you proposing, dwarf?”

Though she couldn't see his face from her vantage point, Hawke almost swore she could _hear_ the lift of his eyebrows and the curl of his lips.

She expected Varric to chuckle in response, but he didn't.

“If you don't hurry it up, I just might,” he said instead, humor in his voice, but also warning. “Hawke isn't exactly a paragon of patience, you know.”

Hawke's breath stilled. Slowly, she settled both hands on the railing in front of her.

“Hawke is...” Fenris faltered. “She is more patient than I deserve.”

“People rarely get what they deserve outside of stories,” Varric pointed out. “But have you considered that maybe your friends have a different idea of how deserving you are?”

Hawke didn’t hear Fenris’s response. She drew away from the balcony, frowning at the turn of their conversation. Did they all think she was just waiting around for him? If that’s what she was supposed to be doing, they had neglected to inform her. She knew better than to wait for a day that wasn’t going to come.

If anything, she was waiting for the day when her gaze no longer went immediately to his wrist to check for the red ribbon whenever she saw him. She was waiting for when her breath no longer hitched at the meeting of their eyes, for when her heart caught up to what her mind had accepted—that she already possessed all he could give.

It would be churlish, after all, to be anything less than content with such a gift as his friendship. And yet…

And yet.

She shook her head to chase away the buzzing thoughts. Her unconscious steps had brought her back down to the lower floor, closer and closer to Varric’s table.

And then the music turned. The soft, dignified notes of a formal Orlesian dance gave way to more lively and familiar chords. The native Free Marchers retreated, bemused, to the sidelines as Fereldans flooded the dance floor.

Hawke planted herself in front of Varric and Fenris, fists on her hips, and demanded:

“Which of you fine upstanding gentlemen is going to dance with me?”

Varric waved a hand towards Fenris. “She’s all yours. I don’t think these old bones could handle the excitement.”

Hawke rolled her eyes. Varric was all of five years her senior. “Alas, is this sedentary life what I have to look forward to in my twilight years?”

“Take advantage of the time you have left,” he said with a grin. “It’s all downhill from here.”

She snorted and turned her gaze to Fenris, eyebrows lifted in invitation.

He stood with a faint bow of his head.

She expected him to hesitate at the edge of the dance floor, to take at least a moment to study what must have been unfamiliar steps of the other dancers, but he took her hand and pulled her after him into the dance.

She had often compared the way they fought in tandem to a dance, and it was these familiar steps she had in mind. Fenris was the axis, seeming stationary but always moving, spinning, light on his feet, while Hawke darted and whirled around him. She was always aware of him, where he stood, how he moved and controlled the flow of combat around him, but now there was _only_ him to hold her awareness. Him and the music and no opponent save perhaps the other dancers.

They barely touched, only the press of their fingertips held aloft between them, or his palm on her hip for just the instant needed to guide a shift in direction. And when the time came to switch partners, she stayed at his side, and he refused to relinquish her to other hands.

Always better dancing with a friend.

When the music ended, abruptly it seemed, they stood for a moment watching each other, heaving deep breaths, before they vacated the floor and collapsed onto a bench along the wall to recover.

“Where did you learn that dance?” Hawke wiped at the sweat beading her forehead. “I thought I was going to have to teach you the steps.”

Fenris chuckled. “You already did. It was Varric’s nameday, two years ago. You insisted I needed to learn something ‘better than that stuffy Orlesian nonsense.’”

“I think I had a lot to drink that night.” She remembered the next day’s headache in far sharper clarity than the party itself.

“Evidently.” They watched as Aveline and Donnic took to the dance floor again. “So Aveline is changing her name from Vallen to Hendyr.”

Hawke looked at Fenris, uncertain how to gauge the shift in his tone, but he was gazing out at the newlyweds.

She shrugged, more to herself than to him. “As she changed her name from du Lac when she married her first husband.”

“It seems strange to me that she would give up her name so easily not only once but twice.” He turned his head to catch her eye. “I can hardly imagine you taking...a husband's name.”

“I suppose it would just confuse everyone if I suddenly stopped being Hawke.” It was rather a moot point, anyway.

He considered her another moment. “I have often wondered why you go by Hawke. Do you dislike your given name?”

“Nooo…I went by Imogen back in Lothering and liked it well enough.” She let her gaze drift back to Aveline and Donnic. “I only started to go by Hawke because that's how I introduced myself to Aveline, one soldier to another, and everyone picked it up from her. Sometimes I wonder if anyone besides Bethany even remembers my first name anymore.”

She had hoped Bethany might be granted leave to attend Aveline's wedding, but even Hawke's influence as Champion held limited sway over the Knight Commander, and she hadn't been allowed to see Bethany since their little trip to the Vimmarks. Meredith had deemed it undue favoritism to permit any more in-person visits.

At least Sebastian was still able to look after Bethany when Hawke couldn't. If Meredith wanted to claim that the Circle was a righteous institution of the Chantry, she couldn't very well deny spiritual guidance from a Chantry brother to a mage under her charge.

Even if Hawke suspected there was more than just “spiritual guidance” going on between Sebastian and her sister.

Fenris’s voice came so low she almost didn’t hear him. “I remember your name. I could use it, if you wish.”

Somehow they had shifted on the bench, unconsciously, so that they were almost facing one another.

“No one would have a clue who you were talking about if you used my first name in public.” She offered a wry smile. “But between us...yes, I wish.”

He dropped his head forward, close to her ear, and murmured almost more to himself than to her, “Imogen.”

The heat of her name on his breath almost made her retreat from the intensity of it. But she stayed close, and she smiled into his name. “Fenris.”

And yet.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It returns!

_“I see you went up to visit Jethann. Didn’t know you had a thing for elves.”_

_Hawke smirked down at her uncle hunched over the bar at the Blooming Rose. “And I didn’t know you and Jethann were on a first name basis. Here for medicinal purposes again?”_

_Gamlen raised his glass in a mock toast. “Don’t mention it to your mother, and I won’t let on that you were here either.”_

_It had become their custom for Hawke and her uncle to trade barbs whenever they happened to meet at the Rose; it was more than they spoke to each other at home. Their agreement to keep Leandra in the dark about each others’ activities was the closest they ever got to friendliness._

_“It’ll be our little secret, just between the…” Varric made a show of looking around the room at the various patrons and staff surrounding them. “…several dozen of us.”_

_Gamlen scowled._

_Aveline nudged Hawke. “We have what we came for. No need to stay here longer than we have to.”_

_“You’re no fun at all,” Isabela muttered._

_“You can stay and chat with my uncle if you’d like.” Hawke shrugged. “But I have better things to do.”_

_Gamlen’s answering leer was apparently enough motivation for Isabela to follow Hawke out._

_They found Bethany waiting a little ways off, by the staircase that led down to Lowtown. She shifted from one foot to the other, arms crossed tightly over her chest._

_“Any trouble?” Hawke asked._

_“Not unless you consider three different men asking my price ‘trouble.’” At Hawke’s frown, Bethany added, “Don’t worry, nobody got pushy.”_

_“Maybe I should have left Aveline out here…”_

_“Or you could have just let me go in with you.”_

_Hawke slung her arm over Bethany’s shoulder. “I have a duty to protect my baby sister’s virgin eyes.” She paused. “And ears.”_

_Bethany flushed and shrugged Hawke’s arm off. “I’m not a baby. It’s not as if I don’t know what a brothel is.”_

_“No, but Mother would still kill me if she got wind that I took you anywhere near one.” As far as Hawke was concerned, that was the end of it, discussion closed. “Anyway, we’re heading to Darktown next. There’s a Templar we need to have a word with.”_

_As she started down the stairs, she heard Varric murmur behind her, “Because I’m sure Leandra would be pleased as punch to hear you’re taking Sunshine_ there.”

_Hawke decided to ignore him._

_“So, Hawke,” Isabela said, a little too casually, as they made their way through the Lowtown market. “Why not take Jethann up on his offer? You could use a bit of relaxation.”_

_“I’ll relax once we’ve tracked down this Templar.”_

_“And that’s exactly why I think you need to loosen up. Anyone wound that tight is bound to snap sooner or later.” Her voice took on a low, salacious tone. “You know, if elves are what do it for you, I have a friend you should meet next time he’s in Kirkwall. He’d like you. And he has_ very _skilled hands.”_

_“I do not need to be hearing this,” Bethany sang._

_Hawke rolled her eyes, her decision to leave Bethany out of the Blooming Rose reaffirmed. Then she glanced over her shoulder at Isabela._

_“Gamlen’s full of shit.” She would have thought that went without saying. “I don’t actually have a ‘thing’ for elves.”_

_“No,” Bethany said sweetly, “just for one elf in particular.”_

_“Bethy!” Hawke prayed to the Maker that the flush she felt would not show on her skin._

_Bethany shrugged, an all-too-innocent grin plastered across her face. “It’s not as if my ‘virgin eyes’ haven’t noticed the way you look at him.”_

_“Honestly,” Aveline added, “it doesn’t take much to notice.”_

_Hawke groaned._

_“Sweetness,” Isabela said, sidling up to Hawke and snaking an arm around her shoulder, “you are way too easy.” She paused. “To wind up, I mean.”_

_“And to read,” Varric added._

* * *

 

“Ah, but before I leave you,” the Antivan said, “I had heard that you were in the company of a certain friend of mine, a lovely pirate by the name of Isabela.”

“I’m afraid your information is out of date.” Hawke’s smile tightened. “Captain Isabela went her own way some time ago, once she had all she needed from Kirkwall.”

“A shame.” Something in the tilt of Zevran’s eyebrows suggested that he had already known. “But she has never been one to stay in port too long.”

“No.” Hawke shook her head, more to clear the thoughts from her mind than to serve as an answer. She could not afford to give Isabela too much space in her head. “Nor, I would guess, are you.”

And soon enough he proved it true, taking his leave and disappearing into the hills without a glance over his shoulder. On another day, Hawke might have been disappointed to see him leave, in spite of the pleasant view his departure provided. As it was, she kept silent, a faint smile of farewell lingering on her lips, until she was certain Zevran was gone. Even her hands stayed relaxed at her sides and did not curl into the fists they desperately longed to form.

Hawke was almost proud of herself for how well she kept her temper.

“Fenris,” she hissed, her voice still holding an edge of sweetness. From the shifting of feet—not only his—behind her, they recognized the peril in her tone. “What exactly do you think gives you the right to speak on my behalf?”

“I…Hawke?”

She drew in a sharp breath through her nose and let it out as she turned to face him. Fenris stood a little in front of the others, either because he had come forward or because the others had backed away. He had the audacity to look confused as Varric and Aveline exchanged glances behind him, and Anders stared off to the side as if there were something particularly fascinating over there.

“The next time someone makes me an invitation, do me the favor of letting me answer for myself.”

Fenris’s expression flickered from bewildered to hurt to angry in the space of a second. “Would you have gone off with him, then?” he demanded. “Who knows what he intended to do once he had you alone and vulnerable!”

“I think I have a pretty good idea of what he intended to do to me.” She let her lips curl into a smirk, though she didn’t know if it was more at herself or at him. “Or were you trying to preserve my honor? Because it’s a little late for that.”

“Have you lost your senses, Hawke?” Fenris threw his hands in the air. “He’s an assassin. And you have enemies.”

“Oh, so it’s just that you don’t think I’m capable of defending myself. Good to know. For a second there, I was almost afraid that you thought you have a say in who I spend my time with.”

Fenris said something in response, but she didn’t hear what. She had already swept past them all, was already walking away, and she did not wait to see if anyone followed. Soon enough, the footsteps of the others tramped up behind her, but no one was making the usual light conversation that accompanied a successful mission.

They let her take the lead on her own, but after a mile or so, Varric drew up to her side. He didn’t say anything right away. She was tempted to just tell him, out with it, but she was not that eager to hear what he had to say. Eventually, he did speak.

“Just out of curiosity,” he said, his tone casual but low enough not to carry, “were you actually going to accept the Crow’s offer?”

“Maybe.” Then, reluctantly, she amended, “Probably not. But that’s not the point, is it?”

“No, I’d say you made your point.” He shoved his hands into his pockets as they walked. “You know, if the elf hadn’t said something, I might have.”

Hawke didn’t meet his eyes but gave a half-hearted grin. “You’ve never struck me as the jealous type, Varric.”

“Well, I have my moments. Mostly, I’m jealous of my friends’ safety when assassins are involved.”

“Oh, come on.” Her steps quickened as her anger flared again. “You know perfectly well that’s not the reason he intervened.”

“It’s not the only reason, no. But I don’t think it was a pretense, either.” They walked in silence for a few more minutes before he said, a little louder, “I have a pebble in my boot. Mind if we take a break here?”

They had come to a familiar spot where they had stopped more than once in the past, an overlook with a convenient slab of stone beneath a twisted tree. Hawke shrugged and accompanied Varric to the makeshift bench with hardly a glance at the others. She watched Varric take off first one boot, then the other, and put them both back on, but she never did catch a glimpse of the pebble. When he stood again, she stayed where she was, looking out over the water. She pulled her knees up to to her chest and rested her heels on the edge of the stone.

Behind her, the others milled around, finally talking among themselves in low voices that she tried to ignore. She could only imagine the rest of them shared Varric’s opinion of the situation, and she didn’t want to hear about it from anyone else.

But then someone did approach behind her, feet crunching the dry grass, and stopped a few feet away. It sounded to her as if the others drew off a little further, their voices raising but growing more distant. She allowed herself a faint sigh, quiet enough to lose itself in the wind.

“Imogen…”

She didn’t acknowledge him.

“Hawke,” Fenris amended, and somehow that hurt more than anything else.

After a moment’s hesitation, she turned her head just enough to catch his shape in her peripheral vision. She sighed more heavily and patted the stone beside her. He took a breath, as if steeling himself, and joined her.

They were silent for a little while, but Hawke knew better than anyone how little silence could heal. So she spoke first.

“Just because you wear that—” She tilted her head towards the ribbon on his wrist. “—doesn’t mean that you have any kind of ownership over me.”

“I never claimed—” He shook his head and made a frustrated noise low in his throat. “Do you wish me to return it to you?”

“No.” Her voice came out more plaintive than she intended, and she hated herself for it, hated how transparent she was. She met his eyes, barely, before settling her chin on her knees. “Really, I ought to give you a replacement. That one’s getting a bit tattered after all this time.”

Fenris didn’t answer for so long that it scared her. Perhaps his patience, too, was wearing thin.

“I apologize,” he said finally, “for speaking over you. I did not intend to dictate your decisions, but I had assumed…you once told me that you didn’t like to take casual lovers. Has that changed?”

“Nothing has changed.” Nothing ever seemed to change between them.

Hawke pushed an errant wisp of hair behind her ear to give her hands something to do while she picked her next words.

“You weren’t wrong, you know. Not about that. But you just took it out of my hands, and I don’t know if that’s because you didn’t believe I could make up my own mind or because you were afraid I might give an answer you wouldn’t like. Either way…” She trailed off, expecting that now he would jump in to defend himself or explain his actions, but he remained silent. “Either way, you certainly didn’t talk to me first. Because we never do, do we? All we ever do is talk in circles around what we really mean.”

“I can’t—” He bit the sentence off, and it reminded her too much of the way he had sounded that night he left. “Imogen, I can’t.”

“I know. I _know,_ but…” She squeezed her eyes shut against the desperation, almost fear, in his voice. “I’m stuck here in the meantime, Fenris. If you’re so certain you know my mind, then tell me: what am I supposed to do?”

His answer came low and restrained—and miserable. “You are free to do as you wish.”

“No, I’m not.” What Hawke wished was exactly what she couldn’t do, and she wished for the ten-thousandth time that she didn’t wish it. She scrubbed at her face with her hands. “But that’s on me, isn’t it? It’s not your fault I can’t…”

 _Get over you,_ she didn’t finish.

“That sounds more dire than I mean it,” she said after a moment’s silence, though she wasn’t certain it was true. It felt dire enough at times. “Maybe I should show you something.”

She dug into her pocket until she found the familiar square of folded up paper. Like Fenris’s ribbon, it was a bit worse for wear, stained and threatening to tear at the creases where it had been unfolded and refolded dozens of times. Lately, she was more careful and only opened it to look at it every once in a while.

“What is this?”

She pressed it into his hand. “Something that I can’t easily tie around my wrist. Open it.”

Fenris obeyed with a wary look, using the claws of his gauntlets like tweezers to gingerly pry the paper open. It didn’t say much, but there were two names written several times over, in two very different hands. One was neat and steady, the other shaky and uncertain, but growing bolder with each repetition.

“I had been trying to forget how terrible my handwriting once was,” he said, and something eased in her.

“Is that why you left it in my library?” Hawke allowed herself a glance at his face. He wasn’t smiling, but he studied the paper as if searching for all its secrets. “I was planning to return it to you, but then I decided to keep it. Unless you want it back now.”

He met her eyes for a second, and then folded the paper up again and held it out to her. “You would know what to do with it better than I.”

“Then I’ll hold onto it,” she said, “until something changes.”


	16. Chapter 16

_“He reminds me of Father, you know.”_

_The Hawke sisters were huddled up together at a table near the back of the Hanged Man, backs to the wall, passing a bottle back and forth as they talked. They had arrived early for what had become a weekly game of cards with some of the people who had agreed to help, directly or indirectly, with the Deep Roads expedition. Varric had not yet come down from his rooms—finishing some paperwork, he said—and the show never really got started without him to play master of ceremonies. But Anders and Fenris had both just arrived, at nearly the same time, and were standing at the bar. Hawke followed her sister’s gaze to the two, who were talking while they ordered their drinks._

_Or arguing, more likely._

_Anders said something and waved a hand in that way he did whenever he thought he had just made a particularly cogent point. Fenris shrugged and gave a brief answer that clearly didn’t impress the other man, who continued talking._

_Hawke accepted the bottle from her sister and took a swig before passing it back. “Who, Anders?”_

_She could see it, a little bit, in the way Anders talked to children who came into his clinic, or in the way he spoke about topics like ethics and freedom. But Anders had that reckless streak in common with Hawke, and most of her friends, that was so different from Malcolm Hawke’s steadfast commitment to keeping his head down and living a quiet life. He had not been a coward, but Malcolm had always, always put the safety of his family ahead of any wishes for the freedom of all mages. Perhaps, she speculated idly, he might have become an agitator like Anders if not for the responsibility of protecting his children, especially the one who inherited his magic. Perhaps Anders might someday grow that same deep well of calm Malcolm had always cultivated—if he survived his crusade against the Circles._

_It occurred to Hawke that she would have to work twice as hard to keep Anders out of the Templars’ reach as she did to keep Bethany hidden from them._

_“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately,” she commented._

_“I like helping out at the clinic. It makes me feel like I’m actually doing something useful.” Bethany shrugged against her shoulder. “And he’s taught me a few new things.”_

_“New things, hm? I’d like to know just what kind of things.”_

_Hawke tried to gauge out of the corner of her eye how much of the flush in her sister’s cheeks was from the drink, and how much was from her own needling._

_“Some healing and the like.” Bethany shifted to look at her squarely. “Don’t you have your eye on him?”_

_She was happy to turn her eye on him again, anyway. He was certainly nice to look at, just the type she tended to go for. And he was passionate about something, a quality that could likely be diverted to some very pleasant applications. But he wasn’t the only intriguing person in the room. Her attention slid to the man next to him. Fenris, as Isabela was fond of pointing out, was also easy on the eyes, if a tougher nut to crack. Hawke had already, on more than one occasion, behaved more foolishly than she usually cared to just to get a smile out of him._

_“I have my eye on everyone, Bethy.” Hawke winked, badly, and was warmed by her sister’s laugh. It wasn’t as if she needed to make any decisions yet, and maybe Bethany would be taking one of those choices out of her hands anyway. “But if you’re interested, it is my noble duty as your gallant older sister to give you first dibs.”_

_“Thank you, sister, but that won’t be necessary.” Bethany sat back and leaned against her shoulder again._

_“What, you’re not worried about Mother, are you?”_

_Leandra wouldn’t approve of either of her daughters jumping into bed with any of Hawke’s newfound, less-than-reputable friends, even if she had taken a liking to Anders and was just as susceptible to Varric’s charm as anyone. All of them were unsuitable, one way or another, except perhaps for Aveline, but she was practically a third Hawke sister._

_“No, what worries me is that…you know…that friend of his. The very, very close friend?”_

_“You’re making it sound like Anders has some sort of secret lover,” Hawke pointed out. Not that she didn’t have a few suspicions about what Anders and Isabela might be getting up to since their recent reacquaintance, but she didn’t think something like that would be very serious—or very secret—with Isabela. “But I assume you mean the uptight, glowy friend?”_

_Bethany wrinkled her nose. “Now_ you’re _making it sound like we’re talking about Fenris.”_

_Hawke paused to consider this. Then she tilted her head and considered it some more. “You have me there. Maybe we should just stick to calling Justice by his name.”_

_“At least he’s one of the virtuous ones, not like Rage or Despair, but this is exactly the thing Father warned me against all my life.”_

_They had all received that lesson. Malcolm had thought it wise to prepare them early, before magic manifested in any of them. In fact, Hawke had gone through much of her childhood believing that the temptations of demons were a threat everyone faced, not just mages. But Anders claimed Justice was not a demon, and Hawke wasn’t convinced he was wrong._

_“He’s not the monster he’s supposed to be according to everything the Chantry says.” Hawke frowned and reluctantly added, “Even Merrill isn’t. Probably. But I think we have more to worry about from her than from him.”_

_Hawke waved Anders and Fenris over as they turned to scan the room, and she hoped she would never learn the answer to those question._

* * *

 

“I’ve told you what I need.” Anders turned away from Hawke and busied himself at his work table, laying out various pieces of equipment alongside the ingredients they had gathered together. “And you’ve made your choice. It’s clear I can’t rely on you anymore, if I ever could.”

“There is very little I wouldn’t do if you asked it of me,” she told him, “but I can’t just thoughtlessly trust you anymore. And I don’t see how you can expect me to after you lied about this potion of yours.”

 _Or after Ella,_ she added silently. She had not forgotten her promise, but she had at least trusted his intentions even after he had come so close to killing the young mage. Somehow the deliberate deception now worried her more than a momentary and much repented loss of control then.

He ignored her and continued his work. As cold as he had made his voice, she knew that Anders was fuming. He wouldn’t be trying so hard to keep his back to her otherwise. So perhaps he was not so closed off that she had no more chance of getting through to him.

“If there’s something you need to get from the chantry, something you need to steal, I can get in and out far more easily than you can. So what is it, documents? Or—” But no, that wouldn’t be it. Hawke was no alchemist, but she could tell from what he had said that this potion was central to whatever he was scheming, something more than just a way to get inside the chantry. “Or is it that _you_ don’t trust _me_ to go along with it if I know the details?”

“Justice has his doubts. And you’ve given me reason to share them.” Anders still refused to look at her. “But when this comes down, it will come down on my head, not yours. It has to be me who does this.”

“So that’s it?” Hawke folded her arms. “There’s really nothing else left of you, no other concern but this one scheme? Nothing left but Justice, even though you still seem capable of disagreeing with him on some things.”

Silence, but for the clinking of instruments in his hands.

She let a little more sarcasm slip into her voice. “Then it was Justice, not Anders, that thought it necessary to interrupt the middle of a mission to warn me against Fenris.”

She half expected to see blue light streaming from his eyes when he finally turned to face her, but they were still the same familiar golden brown.

“Yes, Hawke. It was.” He spat out the words like they were bitter to the taste. “Can’t you see that he’s an enemy to the cause of mages? He’d rather see us all locked away. Or better yet, buried.”

“That’s funny, because—”

“And he’s not that much better for you, either. Is that what you want from a man? Someone who tries to control you? A hound nipping at your heels every moment?”

Hawke tightened her grip on the fury rising in her chest. She didn’t expect her goading to bring out the best in the mage. At least this sounded more like the Anders she knew, the Anders she could talk to. If he would stop interrupting her, anyway.

“A hound? You seem to forget that I’m Fereldan.” She leaned down to scratch behind Pretty’s ears. It had been harder to hold her temper the first time he had called Fenris a “wild dog;” if she could do it then, she could do it now. “But I already have a hound, and I would thank you not to compare Fenris to an animal again. In case you’ve forgotten, he’s been treated like one far too often.”

Anders scoffed. “You’d think he might have more sympathy for the plight of others in captivity.”

“Perhaps he does have more than you think. Did you know that Sebastian—”

“Speaking of Chantry dogs.”

“—wanted to turn you in to the Templars? Merrill too.”

Telling him about it was a risk, but at least Sebastian wasn’t there to make himself a convenient target.

“Well.” Anders grimaced. “That certainly makes me feel better.”

Hawke let herself relax the tiniest bit. No sign of Justice making an appearance, and this was just the sort of thing to draw him out in defense of his host.

Or, and the thought did not reassure her, Anders was right, and the two were no longer separate entities. He had claimed that was the case from the beginning, but Hawke had always seen a division between the man and the spirit, a line where the two met but did not mingle.

“I wasn’t supposed to know about it, but I overheard him speaking to the one person he assumed would be his ally.” She held up her hands. “You’d think a true ‘enemy of the cause of mages’ would have leapt at the chance to see you chained. And yet here you are, walking around free without the Templars…nipping at your heels, so to speak.”

“Am I supposed to take comfort in that?”

“Not really.” Nothing seemed to give him comfort anymore. She wasn’t sure that anything ever had. “The point is, Fenris chose not to turn you in. He has chosen not to turn you in from the day he met you.”

“Give the man a medal for _not_ doing something.”

Maker, the two of them were so much alike in some ways. Equally exasperating, it was no wonder they could both get under her skin so easily.

“I can’t blame you for seeing enemies everywhere, Anders, but Fenris doesn’t have to be one of them. And neither am I.” She tried one last time: “Let me help you.”

“You can’t save me, Hawke.” Anders turned his back on her and returned to his mysterious work. “That was never in the cards. But if you truly want to help, you know what I need you to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I didn't even go a whole year between updates..


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